A Wolf Among The Lambs
by Gingevere
Summary: Doctor Hannibal Lecter works as the head physician at Belvedere Hospital, both saving lives and taking them. One day, a patient arrives that changes everything; a man sent from the trenches, severely wounded and in desperate need of Doctor Lecter's medical expertise. The mysterious soldier intrigues the doctor, as he is not a he; but a woman masquerading as a man.
1. Chapter 1

Doctor Hannibal Lecter was the head physician at the Belvedere Hospital; a recently constructed medical facility that treated a small number of soldiers. Most who ended up here only did so because larger and more conveniently located hospitals were nearly full to the point of bursting. It was a modest facility, home to only a dozen or so nurses, a couple mortally wounded men, and himself. While small and relatively unknown in the public eye, Doctor Lecter had a reputation in the area of being a miracle worker. He had saved the lives of countless men, whose condition elsewhere would earn them a merciful death. However, not everyone who came through those doors would leave quite so lucky, although that was the cost of business; or so the locals thought.

The Doctor was satisfied with his position here, as it allowed him the freedom to indulge in certain other activities with little to no scrutiny. As the head of the facility, he was allotted a very large leash, and it didn't hurt that the hospital was so far out on the moors, away from the town of Belvedere a few miles north. And so here Doctor Lecter stayed, content and simply riding out the days all the while a few soldier's on death's doorstep vanished every so often, presumed cremated or buried in the large cemetery down the hillside.

And then the ambulance came.

It had been a cool fall afternoon, low and even grey clouds overcasting the sky outside of the hospital. The few trees on the moors were golden and showering the earth with leaves, rustling with every breath of wind. There was the sound of bird song, the only indication of animal life in the vast fields. But there was something else that hung in the air.

The Doctor was in his office reading through a newspaper that had been delivered earlier that morning. He skimmed it, only half paying attention. The war was still raging, as was to be expected. He doubted it would end any time soon, and he didn't particularly care as it did not affect him in any direct way that mattered. The trenches did not stretch this far, and likely never would.

And then he heard it. An ambulance, sirens blaring as it rocketed up the dirt road towards the hospital, clearly going as fast as it could. It was still distant, but tangible to the doctor's impeccable hearing. The sound was not unusual, as they received new patients every so often from the western front. Still, it meant he had to get up and take care of the patient. After all, it _was_ his job.

He lifted himself out of the large leather chair, setting the newspaper on the desk in front of him. "Barney?" he called out to his head nurse, who he could hear shuffling around in the hallway just outside of his door. There was a lengthy pause as footsteps approached the office until finally the door opened.

A tall, dark man stuck his head into the room, gazing around until he spotted Lecter. "Yes doctor?" Barney asked, voice low and even. Even from a distance, the man towered over Hannibal by nearly an entire foot, but there was not a drop of malice in his being.

"Please prepare a room for our new patient."

Stepping fully into the head physician's office, the head nurse looked quizzically at Hannibal. "New patient? I haven't received any word about a transfer."

Lecter met Barney's gaze, stepping from around his desk and towards the door. The nurse stepped aside to let him pass, and then began to follow him down the hallway towards the lobby.

Hannibal explained, not turning to face the man following him. "The mail came late today. I received the memo just a half-hour ago, although I suspect this patient is quite badly injured. Fresh from the trenches, so he's not a transfer. They should be here in… oh, about seven minutes. Please, go prepare a surgery room for him. Room 17B will do, as it should already be mostly set up. I took the liberty earlier."

It was only then that the sirens could be heard echoing over the flat expanses of grassland, and understanding dawned on Barney's face. Quickly, the man rushed off to prepare the surgery room for their most recent guest. Hannibal kept walking down the white-tiled halls lit by yellow lights encased in iron cages. He turned and weaved through the maze of hospital rooms towards the lobby.

Soon he entered a large, semicircular room lined with tall windows that looked out onto the moors surrounding the facility. It was painted white, just like the rest of the building. Hannibal knew the tint inspired a sense of cleanliness in the psyche of those inhabiting the hospital, but he felt it just made everything look sterile and anxious. A few potted plants did little to hide the effect.

There, just coming over the hill was the ambulance. There were already three or so nurses gathered there waiting for the new arrival, each looking to some degree concerned about the incoming patient. The doctor's face remained impassive as always. After all, this was only yet another soldier that would either live or die by his hand. He didn't much care which.

The large, box-like vehicle came to a screeching halt outside of the double doors just in front of the small group of medical professionals. The back of the car was flung open by unseen hands, and two men jumped out, quickly pulling a white gurney onto the dirt parking lot. A lean figure, covered partially by a blood-stained sheet could be seen strapped to the surface. But something felt off. Doctor Lecter waited, transfixed by the pale shape beneath that blanket. He couldn't place it.

A third figure came into view, pushing out the opposite end of the gurney out of the trunk, and between the three men they began the job of transporting the wounded soldier into the hospital. The hospital doors burst open as the two front men exploded inside, one muttering a vague profane phrase in the process.

He felt as if he was struck by a blow. Something was definitely wrong with this man, draped like a ghost in white fabric. He couldn't quite understand, but something was different. Like reaching for something just barely out of reach.

Moving the strange sensation aside, but not forgetting; he settled into his position as head physician. "What happened?" Hannibal asked as he took the lead, moving towards the surgery room Barney had prepared.

"Bastard took on a trench by himself, one of the Germans knifed him real good on his right side. Had to hold his guts in just to get him onto the gurney. Must have spent ten minutes laying in his own blood before we found him. He's lucky to be alive," the man at the back of the group said. "Better stay that way, I owe him a drink," he noted, looking pointedly at Lecter. "We stabilized him as best we could on the way here."

The doctor hummed, indeed noting that almost the entire right side of the sheet was stained in a dark red. The face of the soldier was splattered with blood, most of it not his own, judging by the smell. Hannibal's eyebrows furrowed, almost imperceptibly. His face… it was smooth; skin showing no sign of facial hair, as if he had shaved within the past twelve hours. Or… no. Certainly not.

"Name?" Hannibal asked, intent on gathering more information.

"Jack Agnus," replied the same man.

"Allergies? Any recent injuries or trauma?"

"None that I know of."

"Blood type?"

"Oh negative."

As they rushed down the hallways, he took another look at Jack. His hair was short, light brown, clearly cut to the military standard. His eyes were closed, and had the appearance of being sunken in, most likely due to a lack of sleep, food, or some combination of the two. The sharp angles of his face led down to his neck, then disappeared underneath the cloth that covered him; which looked to be because of genetics rather than starvation. Still, there was something that was odd about him.

All of this was not what was causing him discomfort. There was a strange smell in the air, emanating from Jack himself. It was setting the doctor off, but the scent was so covered by the smell of blood and dirt that he almost couldn't detect it.

Oh… _oh_.

He was so surprised his steps nearly faltered.

"That will do for now," Hannibal said suddenly, his even tone not betraying the torrent of thoughts that erupted in his mind. "I will take him from here."

"What?" One of the men said, confusion evident in his voice.

"I will take Jack to the surgery room myself. All the staff I require are already there. Thank you, your service is appreciated but no longer needed."

"Uh, are you sure?" the man closest to him asked, "The wound is pretty severe…"

"I am very much capable of taking care of him. You may not have heard, but I am one of the top medical professionals in my field. There will be a better chance of saving Jack if I am the one who cares for him. I'll take him now. Same goes for the nurses. One of you please prepare a private room for Jack once he's out of surgery."

The group that followed Doctor Lecter gave nervous glances to each other, but eventually backed off and allowed Hannibal to take the gurney alone.

As he pulled the unconscious soldier along, he wondered just how, _how_ Jack had made it here. And why he was even fighting in the war to begin with. Interest clawed at his insides, curiosity boiling in his blood. But first things first. He had to save his life.

Finally, Lecter arrived at the surgery room Barney had prepared earlier. Pushing open the door, he found the head nurse awaiting him, already dressed in his scrubs. "Doctor," he said, hands clasped together. He paused. "...Where are the other nurses?" the man asked, craning his neck to peer down the hallway.

"Barney, I trust you to keep what you see in here a secret."

"Doctor Lecter?" the nurse asked, trying not to look alarmed. Lecter could hear his heartbeat increase, and watched as the man's pupils began to dilate. He was nervous. "What's going on? What secret?"

"There's no time," Hannibal said as he pulled back the blood-stained sheet that covered Jack, and with one hand lowered the light above them so it illuminated the figure on the table below. "Disinfectant please."

Barney silently handed the doctor the bottle of disinfectant, in the process wheeling over the metal table on which the instruments of surgery laid and taking another bottle for himself. 'I take it then that we are performing this alone then?" the head nurse asked quietly, heart still beating like the flapping of a hummingbird's wings.

"Yes, so I urge you to stay focused."

The face of Jack was pallid, eyes moving rapidly back and forth underneath long eyelashes. His chest moved slowly, shallowly. He had lost much blood, that was clear. The tan trench coat he wore was thick and saturated with red, but mostly on the right side as indicated by the long laceration that obviously dug deep under his skin. He unbuttoned the uniform, revealing a simple white undershirt, stained with sweat and dirt and, unsurprisingly, more blood. Taking a pair of scissors from the table, Hannibal cut the fabric from stomach to neck, revealing what he had already known.

"What is that?" Barney asked, leaning over the immobile figure.

The doctor's heartbeat sped up as he confirmed what he had noticed earlier. Still, he was a professional. Now was not the time to act like a deer caught in the headlights. He examined the wound, which stretched like a red ribbon up from the mid-thigh to just below the armpit on the right side. It went deep, and he could see both bone and the small intestine, as well as parts of the large intestine. Seemingly, nothing but muscle had been cut, which was convenient. The wound itself, he noticed, was most likely caused by a standard German trench knife, six inches long and double-edged. An uncommon weapon, he noted. Most were one-sided.

But just above where the laceration ended was a band of tightly-wound fabric that encased Jack's upper chest in a prison of stiff bandage. The fabric did what it could, but it still rose and fell in two distinct, smooth hills of flesh.

"Jack- He's… He's a..." Barney stuttered, seemingly at a loss for words.

Hannibal blinked, looking from the soldier below him to the head nurse. "Do you understand why I asked you to keep this to yourself?" he asked, holding the man's gaze intently. He would not let this get out to the staff, nor the public. No, he was too curious to let whatever this charade was fall to pieces just yet.

Barney nodded mutely, and seemed to gather himself. Then, he began to work on saving this… _Jack_ 's life.

Doctor Lecter too began to work, all the while wondering just how a woman had managed to make it into the trenches, and not even bothering trying to figure out why. Yet.

While he had few concerns about his skills as a doctor, the thought still lingered in the back of his mind. The wound was deep, and she had lost a lot of blood. What if she didn't survive? The idea bothered him more than he expected it to. He'd never cared before whether a patient lived or died, although to his credit it was usually the former. He was still a medical professional, even if his... _extracurriculars_ did not meet the industry standards. As he worked over the inert form of the soldier below him, he refused to let his mind wander any further. This required his full attention, and Doctor Lecter did not let anything escape the highest standard of which he was capable.

Barney too was quiet, concentrating solely on the patient on the table. Hannibal had a great respect for the soft-spoken nurse. He never infringed on his patience, and always seem to understand when he was wanted and when he was not without having been told. Not to mention that he excelled at his practice and his work was always excellent. Barney was by far one of the best nurses he'd ever worked with, and there had been many in his long years of service.

Hannibal concentrated on the flesh below him, clear and pink since the other man had washed out the grime and dirt. He confirmed that nothing but sinew had been sliced, so "Jack" had evaded internal damage in terms of organs. But it was deep, about four inches deep, and it pulled apart like a valley. Stitches were needed, clearly. But it would not be an easy recovery.

"Barney, please get me a blood transfusion. Oh negative please."

The nurse set down the antiseptic bottle and rushed towards the back of the surgery room towards where the blood samples were kept. Hannibal began work on stitching the wound up. He reached for the needle and surgical string, and with the precision of a master he pushed the tip through the skin and pulled.

Skin is a marvelous thing. Its ability to stretch and regenerate were beyond anything currently scientifically available to him. "Jack" was lucky that she had only suffered what by all accounts was a clean wound, and no tearing or loss of flesh was present. Plastic surgery was not a reliable science by any account, and he was glad he would not have to perform it now.

The nurse returned with and IV, and hanging from it was a blood bag. Barney wasted no time in inserting the tube into her arm. The doctor began to feel more comfortable with the operation now, but they were not out of the woods yet. He continued stitching together flesh with flesh and skin with skin in an almost artful criss-crossing of string. He felt a sense of pride in his work, his skill, and he was no stranger to showing it.

The only sound now was the dripping of the IV and the quiet slip of needle into skin for the next half-hour. Barney rushed from task to task, completing the odds and ends of the surgery while Hannibal did the heavy work. The nurse removed all the scraps of clothing that had covered the woman below them, and replaced it with a modest green surgical sheet; maintaining a level of professionalism the doctor was convinced the female nurses would not have been able to attain. It was not a gendered statement, merely more of an observation of their personalities. He did not much care for them.

Doctor Lecter finally pulled back from his position over the figure, satisfied with his work. The stitching was designed to produce minimal scarring, and would be easy to remove when the time came. Still, the dark string against her pale flesh was jarring. The sliced wound was a couple feet long. She must have been in considerable pain before losing consciousness. He vaguely wondered if she had quickly given into the bliss of sleep, or if she had fought for every breath. After a second, he was sure it was the latter. A woman who had snuck into the army, and invaded an entire enemy trench on her own? Surely she was courageous until the bitter end. An admirable trait.

Some color had returned to her face with the introduction of foreign blood. He was confident they had performed the surgery to the highest standard to which they were capable. Now, it was up to her. Would she wake up, or would she become just another casualty in this Great War?


	2. Chapter 2

The staff was under very strict instructions to not enter room four. It was one of the bigger rooms in the hospital, and Hannibal's favorite; should he have to choose. Room four was one of the few with a view, lazily looking down the hill and out onto the moors. It always accepted to morning sunlight with open arms, as it faced east and there were no obstructions. Doctor Lecter made it very clear that only he and the head nurse, Barney, were allowed to enter. Anyone to violate this rule was to be immediately terminated.

"Jack" did not wake up on the first day, which did not surprise Lecter. She also did not wake up on the second. It was on the third day that the doctor started to feel concerned. She was running a little warm, which could be a sign of infection. Being so weak, he could not be certain of her recovery, should she develop an infection.

Barney held the same reservations, and Hannibal found that the nurse visited room four more than he himself did, which was not a shock. Doctor Lecter had a number of duties as the head doctor at Belvedere Hospital that needed tending to and it limited his time. Unnervingly, the doctor found that this bothered him more than he would like. He wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up, and he wanted to know exactly who, and what she was. Mysteries did not sit well with him, and this one was lying just tantalizingly out of reach.

Doctor Lecter's patience was famous, but he found that by the end of day three it was wearing thin. He did not make a habit of abstaining from indulging himself, as the act of denying his own needs seemed pointless and counterintuitive. He wanted answers, and with no way of obtaining them, he set his focus on something he _could_ obtain.

There was a man in room six who had suffered severe head trauma, and had had his left leg amputated upon his arrival to Belvedere two weeks prior. The doctor knew he wouldn't survive, but the nurses were unconvinced. So, he kept the man alive for two reasons. To appease his staff, and for his own indulgence. For a night like tonight.

Hannibal knew the nurse's routines because he was the one who set him. And he set them with a convenient gap in staff observation for exactly this reason. He walked calmly down the halls, which looked grey in the moonlight; like one of the films he had seen at the theater in town. He passed the rooms, not bothering to look at the numbers printed on placards which were nailed to the wood. His memory was impeccable, and he could walk these hallways dead and still know where he was.

 _Ah, room six._

The door was the same as all the other doors, save for the number. Silently, he swung the entryway open and stalked inside like a cat, his feet hardly making a sound on the tiled floor. Nobody would question his presence in the room, even at this hour. But Hannibal enjoyed the knowledge that he would not be caught, not even by a ghost. And there were many that followed him.

The man was comatose in the bed, covered limply by the hospital bedspread. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, indicating life in the immobile body; but the doctor knew better. This man would never wake up. Even if Hannibal had no hand in it.

This man's existence ended tonight. No family had claimed him. No one would miss him. No one would look any closer at his death caused by the doctor's own actions.

There was a syringe in his hospital coat, filled with an innocuous, water-like liquid. He removed it and with little flair he pushed the metal tip into the IV that was inserted into the soldier's vein. Once it ran its course, the poison would dissipate and become unrecognizable and no longer dangerous, which suited his needs just fine.

And as quickly as he came, he left. Still, there was no one in the hallway to witness his presence. A sense of satisfaction washed over his being. He felt in control, in his element. Tomorrow he would follow up on the man he had just sentenced to death. He would be passed on by morning.

The moon had gotten no lower in the sky between the time Hannibal had set foot inside room six and stepped out again. A murder that took place in less than two minutes. Calm laced through his veins, and the tension of the past two days seemed to dissipate for the moment. Yes, tomorrow was something to look forward to. He would put his finer skills to work.

By nature, Doctor Lecter was an early riser; and was usually in full swing by six in the morning. The news of the death in room six was already the headline of the day. As he went about his morning duties, he listening vaguely to the nurses chattering to one another in small groups as they rotated stations or ate breakfast in the staff common room. No one was suspicious of the man who seemingly died of his wounds late last night.

He knew what happened next. The man's burial.

As Belvedere hospital was a small facility with limited funds as well as a shallow pool of applicants, it fell to Doctor Lecter to fill in the role as coroner of the building. Belvedere hospital was not built to house more than fifty or so patients at a time, so there were never enough deaths to require the services of a full-time coroner. Of course, this did not bother Hannibal in the slightest. It was extremely convenient on his part, and had only required the barest of efforts to even set up.

It was not long after he had first received the "news" that there had been a death that the doctor was wheeling a sheet-covered gurney down the hallways in a somber fashion towards the basement. There were few people in the hallways; a spattering of nurses here and there and the occasional patient. Each one he passed lowered their head and did not meet his eyes, nor looked at the body; which looked to him more like a floating dinner table than anything else. Still, he admired their respect for the man who none of them had even known in life.

The rubber wheels patterned over the tile indents, vibrations travelling up the muscles in his arms to his jaw, which clattered softly as he travelled onwards. He looked downward to see the corpse shivering slightly with movement like a pair of electrified frog legs. It gave off the impression that the man was still alive, a thought that made the doctor slightly uncomfortable. He quickly shrugged off the feeling as nonsense of course. The past few days had been marginally taxing. He was looking forward to this next part.

Hannibal pushed the gurney into the elevator, which moved slightly under the weight it had been greeted with. Letting go of the surface, he turned and slid the iron cage doors closed behind him, then pressed the button to the right labeled "B". The elevator jostled and groaned as it began to drop downwards.

The doctor stood silently, half-heartedly listening to the sounds that surrounded him. He could still hear the staff upstairs talking indistinctly to one another, and the quiet, pained moans of the soldiers that inhabited the building. He could hear the high-pitched whine of the wires in the walls, which was nearly engulfed by the sound of the mechanical prison that clambered ever downwards.

Suddenly, the elevator heaved and stopped. The single hanging light bulb overhead swayed with the motion, casting strange shadows down upon the doctor's figure as well as the immobile corpse next to him. Without hesitation, Doctor Lecter grabbed the front of the gurney and began to pull it from the elevator and into the darkened basement hallway.

Hannibal followed a low-hanging steam pipe that hissed quietly into the quiet of the corridor, allowing it to lead him towards the autopsy room, the cart dragging behind him at a leisurely pace. His gait remained casual despite his anticipation.

Soon the metal doorway came into view. Turning the doorknob, he swung it open and entered the cool, wide room. It was only slightly brighter than the hallways outside, but much colder. One long wall was lined with body-sized coolers, none of which carried occupants. Two metal tables stood near the center of the room, shining and irrigated as to prevent liquid from pooling on the table's surface. The morgue was otherwise empty save for Hannibal and his guest.

Hannibal's official job now was to merely prepare the body for burial. Since no family had claimed the soldier, there would merely be a small, closet-casket ceremony before he would be laid to rest in the cemetary down the hillside from the hospital. Since no one after himself would see the body, Hannibal had free reign over his own castle so to speak. This room was one of the few he allowed himself to express his cravings. Where he could be himself, in a sense.

The doctor moved the body onto the table, the rigor mortis having already set in; so it felt as if he was lifting a log. The green sheet was caught under the mass of the man, and Hannibal noted how it stretched like a second skin over the soldier, curving softly over his nose and eyes. He removed the fabric, revealing the pallid shape that lied underneath it. The sheet was moved to a small bin close to the table to be washed later.

Doctor Lecter looked down upon the body once again, wondering which parts he wanted to take. It was a question of what he was in the mood for, really. What did he want for dinner tonight?

He spent the better part of the the next hour carving choice cuts from the dead man, with no one bothering or distracting him from his work. The knives reflected the man-made light in the dark of the basement morgue as he sliced and cut as he pleased. Soon, he had all that he desired, and he placed it neatly in an opaque, black plastic case that he kept hidden in the back of one of the empty body coolers for this very purpose to be removed later and taken back to his residence just outside of Belvedere. He was now ready to pack the man into his coffin where he would spend the rest of his existence, having gotten what he needed.

The doctor retrieved the coffin from where it had been delivered earlier that morning and brought it back down to the morgue where the body still waited. He dressed the corpse in a fine suit that the hospital supplied, ensuring that the man left this world in style. The dead soldier was considerably lighter to lift into the oak tomb than he had to lift it onto the table, now missing his liver, left deltoid, left pectoralis major, and his heart and lungs. The satin inside the case encircled the man, cushioning the body in a comfort that Hannibal thought was unnecessary. He then covered the lower portion of the body in a blanket that came already within the coffin. Doctor Lecter stepped back and admired his work.

There were no visible signs of the parts he had butchered, as the suit covered any missing areas that existed and he had packed it with cotton. He then closed the lid, and slid the coffin onto the gurney he had brought the body down on. It was heavy, and unlikely that any person would open it accidentally due to the weight of it. They'd have to very specifically want to look at the body. No one was likely to discover his actions.

Hannibal sighed satisfactorily. He thought that tonight he would make a nice cordon bleu and break into his bottle of eighteen-sixty seven wild ferment chardonnay. He had recently purchased a block of aged swiss that he thought would go marvellously with the meal he had already planned in his head. All he had to do now was turn the coffin over to the groundskeeper, finish his daily routine, pick up his black case of choice cuts, and head home to begin cooking.

Suddenly, a metallic lurching sound caught Hannibal's ear. The elevator had started, clanging its way down from the ground floor and towards the basement. He practically never received visitors while he was working in the basement. He wondered what the occasion was, and pushed aside his annoyance at being disturbed.

Doctor Lecter continued working while he listened to the elevator lurch to a stop, and the heavy footsteps that came ever closer to the morgue. It only took a moment for Hannibal to recognize the owner. Barney.

The metal door opened behind him as the head nurse stepped into the room. He was moving quickly, and he was slightly out of breath. Why had he been rushing?

"Doctor Lecter, I'm sorry I disturbed you. Jack woke up. I knew you wanted to be the first one to talk to her, so I came to get you as soon as I could."

Hannibal turned around, his interest spiking. "Ah, thank you Barney. I very much appreciate it. Would you do me a favor, and take this departed soldier to Mr. Greene? He's ready for burial. I would like to go see Miss Jack sooner rather than later."

"Of course, doctor. I'll take him straight away," the other man said calmly, taking a hold of the coffin next to Hannibal with one, strong hand. "I'll follow you up."

The doctor did not respond save for a brief nod of his head. Without waiting, he began to briskly stride into the basement hallway, Barney dragging the disposed man behind them.

His mind was racing. "Jack" was awake. He was fairly confident she would initially survive her wounds, as he imagined her to be a great fighter considering what she had done already. He respected that. Finally, he would begin to unravel the mystery that had arrived covered in blood only three days prior. This was turning out to be quite the afternoon.

The two men arrived at the elevator and stepped inside, the gurney clattering loudly as it crossed the threshold. Hannibal pressed the button for the first floor and slid the doors closed in front of him, the cage shaking and stuttering in an upward motion, carrying the occupants skyward.

The ride was blissfully short, and within a minute or so the doctor had stepped out from the shaft and parted ways with Barney. He headed towards the front of the hospital where he knew room four to be located, his steps quicker than his usual pace. What would she say? Would she be courteous, or would she be hostile? Would she realize that Hannibal had protected her identity out of curiosity rather than some perceived and unknown self-interest? He wanted to know her, and to know the answers that only the mysterious female soldier could provide.

Room four came into view quickly, and he stopped just short of entering. From inside, he could hear light but pained breathing coupled with shallow movements that likely stemmed from the discomfort of the long laceration she suffered. Yes, she was definitely awake. Steeling himself, Doctor Hannibal Lecter knocked on the wooden door with the knuckle of his pointer finger loud enough for the occupant to hear. Immediately the shuffling stopped and the breathing hitched. Only a moment passed before he heard a voice, a chiming tone interlocked with some sort of accent - southern American? No, rural, but masked - call out to him. "Come in."

He did not need to be told twice. He lightly grasped the doorknob, cool under his fingertips, and twisted; slowly opening the door.

Inside was the scene he had anticipated. The woman was still laying in the same spot he had left her three days before, albeit head propped up by two pillows; Barney's job no doubt. He briefly wondered if the dark man had spoken to her, but quickly figured he had likely only spoken about the remedial medical topics. He wouldn't go against the doctor's wishes, which Hannibal had made clear from the beginning. He was to have the first real conversation with her.

The woman, "Jack" as he knew her, was still a modem pale, but in much better condition than she had been on the day of her arrival. He could not see the stitching due to her loose hospital gown, but he did notice her stiff and pained movements centering on her right side. Her hair was still short, but it was a shade of soft light brown that he thought suited her. Her angular face was directed towards him, and her sharp blue eyes were focused intently on him, like he was under her microscope. He knew then that this woman was not unintelligent, and she seemed to be examining his every move with a scrutiny that rivaled his own.

"I am Doctor Lecter, the head physician at this hospital. It is nice to meet you," he greeted her cordially, making sure his body posture could be interpreted as friendly and fluid rather than rigid. He moved his arms wide, exposing his figure to inspire an openness he was sure she would pick up on.

She continued watching him, and Hannibal noted that she was slightly tense, which did not seem to originate from her wound. She was suspicious of him, as they both knew that Hannibal knew her secret. It did not sit well with her.

"...It's nice to meet you, doctor," she responded after a second, her voice not dampened by the bedding or walls within the room. It was a nice sound, clear and concise and not unkind.

There was another moment of silence as they regarded each other.

Hannibal wanted to put her at ease and calm her nerves. The tension in the room was beginning to set him on edge. He began to explain himself. "I am the one that treated your wound, along with my head nurse, who you have met already. I have allowed no one but us to enter your room, and have not told anyone about your… condition. Your secret is safe with us. No one but Barney and I know you're a woman."

She didn't relax, not at first. Doctor Lecter was sure she was wondering if he told the truth or not. He watched her gaze shift around the room, as if trying to gather some kind of proof that only he and Barney had entered while she was unconscious. Eventually, her posture dropped, and a sigh escaped her lips. She looked at Hannibal again, this time in skeptical confusion.

"While I appreciate the discretion doctor, may I ask why? Why haven't you told anyone about me?"

Ah, there was the million-dollar question. Why had he kept her a secret? There was a fair chance he'd be commended by the military if he had turned her over, almost as if he had caught a spy in their midst. But he had no desire for recognition, not from the army at any rate.

"Truthfully," the doctor said calmly, "I admire your determination. Your… courage. I would not wish suffering on anyone with the tenacity you seem to possess. So I will continue to protect you, if you wish."

Her eyebrows dropped slightly, casting shadows over her eyelashes. "You want something in return."

The corner of Hannibal's lip twitched. Not unintelligent indeed. "You could say that, although whatever it is you have in mind, you can forget. I just want to ask you questions, about yourself. You've impressed me," he admitted, "and I want to know more about you. Call it professional curiosity if you want."

She didn't seem entirely convinced. Hannibal wasn't surprised, he knew the rumors; how women were treated by men, especially men in superior positions. But he certainly wasn't interested in sexual favors. No, he had always found other pursuits more fulfilling.

"Questions like what, exactly?" she asked quizzically, her gaze narrowing, lips thinning into a line, eyes still staring at him and engulfing his own in their cutting blue.

The doctor took a step forward, still maintaining his relaxed posture. She didn't shy away, but still appeared wary of his presence. "Well," he said, reaching the side of her bed while still maintaining a respectable distance, "I assume the name "Jack" was taken from either someone you know, or someone you respect. I am convinced it is not your real name." He paused for a moment, watching the woman in front of him curiously. She didn't shrink away. "What is your name?"

He could hear her heartbeat increase. Still, despite her nervousness, she continued their eye contact; standing as tall as she could from her position on the hospital bed. A small boldness.

"My name is Clarice," she breathed quietly into the silence of the room. "Clarice Starling."

"Well, Miss Clarice, it _is_ nice to meet you," Hannibal said, his voice soft; but it echoed throughout the small room like thunder.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a light above her. It was soft, eggshell colored; vague like she was underwater. Clarice didn't understand the light. It was so _uncomfortable_. It hurt, it pressed against her skin as if it weighed a thousand pounds. She couldn't move. Was she dead? No, she didn't _feel_ dead. Being dead wasn't supposed to be so painful.

She wanted to sink back into the darkness that she knew was just behind her. She couldn't move her head, but just out of her periphery she could see that blissful black cradling her. Clarice could feel the comforting nothingness that the dark promised. She wanted to ease back into it, to sleep.

But that wasn't right. Clarice couldn't quite place it, but she knew that she shouldn't give into her desire. Without the option to sink back, Clarice could only go forward. To push into that immensely unattractive glow.

She began to climb upwards, her entire body aching as she inched into the light. The first thing she heard was… silence. Not a silence that suggested nothing, but a silence that was composed of a lack of noise. It was a quiet whining that denoted she was alive.

Her body _hurt_. Every muscle, every nerve ending crackled with discomfort. She could now hear her own shallow, labored breathing. Something was wrong. There was a sharp sensation on her right side that she didn't understand. Every contraction of her lungs made it spike with red-hot agony. Why was that there? _What_ was that?

Clarice could now feel the sensation of sheets laying heavy upon her skin, and the strange rough fabric she seemed to be clothed in, like some kind of paper. The air was warm, but she felt slightly cold despite it. It smelled like antiseptics. Where was she? Where was the gritty feeling of trench dirt that clotted to her skin, or the sound of yelling and bombs? Why was the air not cool with the vicious wind that streaked down from the sky and hit the underground like a diving bird of prey?

She tried to open her eyes. The muscles creaked from the effort, straining with every millimeter she stole away from the darkness. The light was near blinding at first, so Clarice waited for her eyes to adjust. Four white walls surrounded her, forming a room that was not big but not small either. A single, large window stood to her left, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. An afternoon sun, by the looks of it. To her right and behind her so she could hardly even see it, was a small countertop lined with cotton swabs and the other odd item. She was in a hospital, no doubt.

A sudden flash of pain caused her to see red.

There it was again, that white-hot ribbon of agony. It came from her right side. Carefully, Clarice lifted up the blanket that was laid on top of her, revealing a paper-like hospital gown that she was clothed in. Ignoring it, she lifted it up as well, finally revealing what had been paining her so much. A long and dark rope of stitched-together flesh lined the entire side of her body. She looked at it in faciation, taking one finger and running it down the wound gently. She followed it, fingertip skimming over the rough stitching until it disappeared under the loose hem of her pants.

What had _happened_?

Clarice tried to remember what had occured, what had brought her to be sitting in this bed with such an unpalatable wound.

 _Oh, of course._

The German trench. The impossible wall of enemy soldiers bearing down upon her. The cool, wet mud against her back, and the dull sound of bullets lodging in the wall against which she leaned, making her eardrums ache. The metallic scent of blood that hung in the air like a chemical bomb.

" _Töte diesen amerikanischen Abschaum! Töte diesen amerikanischen Abschaum!"_

What was that sound? It was wheezing, heavy against the white walls she found herself in. It sounded as if…

It was the sound of her own panicked breathing.

Just then, the doorway in front of her began to open. Quickly, Clarice struggled to mitigate the panic that was engulfing her, to calm her breathing and maintain a facade of normalcy. She watched suspiciously as the door opened completely and a large figure enter the room.

He was tall, extremely tall. The white scrubs he wore were stark against his dark skin. He didn't look at her at first, perhaps assuming she was still unconscious. How long had she even been in this hospital?

Finally, the man looked up from the clipboard in his hand at Clarice. He visibly jumped upon seeing his patient obviously awake and staring at him. "Oh, excuse me," he exclaimed, "I didn't realize you were awake."

She gave him a courteous nod, but did not reply otherwise. He didn't seem to notice her erratic breathing.

"Well," the man said, attempting to calm himself down in the process, "I'm glad you finally woke up. My name is Barney, I'm the head nurse here."

"It's nice to meet you sir," Clarice replied cordially, craning her sore neck in order to make better eye contact with him.

"Would you like another pillow? I'm afraid we can't prop up your bed yet, due to the nature of your wounds," Barney asked, genuine concern in his gaze.

She thought for a moment. "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

The tall nurse went to the back of the room and began to rummage through the cabinets she had noticed earlier, quickly retrieving another white pillow. Clarice moved her head up into the air, allowing Barney to wedge it behind her skull. Much better.

"So," Barney began, picking up his clipboard from where he had placed it on the countertop, "Some preliminaries I'd like to get out of the way before you meet the doctor."

"Uh-huh," Clarice voiced her acknowledgement.

"The form your injuries came in is a one and a half meter long laceration. The doctor stitched it up the night you came in, and as long as it doesn't get infected and remains undisturbed you will likely recover completely in a few months."

"The night I came in?" she asked, jumping into the conversation. "How long ago was that exactly?"

"Just over three days ago," Barney said, sounding a modem uncomfortable.

She had been unconscious for three days. The thought disturbed her. She wasn't surprised, considering the knife slash she had received. But the idea of being out of touch for so long made her uncomfortable. She needed to be awake and in control at all times, considering her situation.

 _Oh shit_. There was no way the medical staff here had missed out on the reality that she was a woman. Her stomach dropped so hard she felt it would rip through her abdomen. They knew.

Barney must have noticed her sudden realization and panic. "You're safe here, Jack," he promised sincerely. "You're safe. Nothing is going to happen to you. The doctor will make sure of it."

Clarice looked him up and down, as if there was something that would tell her if he was lying or not. Eventually she figured that, since she had been in a coma for three days, if something was going to happen it would have already. She really had no choice but to trust him. Clarice nodded slowly.

Barney smiled at her and began what seemed to be a routine medical procedure. He checked her blood pressure, as well as lifted up the side of her shirt to look at her wound. Her heart fluttered nervously as he examined her body, and she fidgeted in her position on the bed.

After a few minutes, the nurse seemed satisfied with what he found. "Alright," he said in conclusion, "Everything looks good. If you'll excuse me, I am going to get the doctor. He'll be able to talk to you more in depth about your situation. Do you need anything else before I go?"

She shook her head no. Barney had already mentioned this doctor numerous times. Admittedly, her curiosity was peaking. Who was this man that he spoke so highly of? Already she could tell that this was not your run-of-the-mill medical professional.

The head nurse gave her another smile before he turned and quietly left the room, leaving her to her thoughts.

The hospital room once again dropped into a comfortable silence as she sat there alone. It seemed that she was not in any immediate danger of being turned into authorities, assuming she could trust Barney's word. She wasn't entirely sure that she should.

Again, Clarice thought back on what had happened before she had woke up. Did one of the field medics that undoubtedly brought her here discover her secret? The wound she sustained was long, and it ran almost up to the bandages she had wound tightly around her chest. Had they noticed them? If they did, did they recognize them for what they were? Her breathing hitched in concern. She loved her compatriots. The idea that they would cast her out after realizing her gender made her sick.

It was only because she wanted to save them that she entered the foreign trench alone. There wasn't enough time to get backup. Either she went in, or they all died.

Clarice realized her breathing was becoming erratic again. The soldier concentrated on controlling it, cursing under her breath for allowing herself to lose control like that again. She looked down at her hand, clenching it in an effort to vent some of her frustrations. It caused some pain to her side, but she ignored it. The sensation helped ground her in a way.

It took a few minutes for her to calm down again. She was safe here, right?

As she sat in the silent room, Clarice realized that she could hear distant footsteps coming down the hallway towards her. They were even footfalls, walking briskly on hard flooring. They continued until eventually they came to a stop outside of her door. However, whoever it was did not immediately enter. They stood there, and Clarice felt as if they were listening in on her.

Then came a light knock. Despite her awareness of the person on the opposite side of the door she still jumped slightly. Chastising herself, she called out to them. "Come in," she said lightly.

And so they did. The door opened, revealing a taller man wearing an immaculate white lab coat. He was older -maybe in his forties? - and relatively built; chest broad but not overly so. The man's hair was thin but well-kept; not a single hair out of place. His eyes, a pale but intense blue, were examining her attentively.

"I am Doctor Lecter, the head physician at this hospital. It is nice to meet you," he spoke up, his voice soft but cultured. He opened his arms as if to embrace her from his spot across the room. There was something about him though that was… sharp. Something intense. She knew he knew she was a woman. Could she trust him?

"...It's nice to meet you, doctor," she said slowly, meeting his blue eyes with her own. He didn't seem malevolent exactly. She wasn't sure what he was.

She felt his gaze on her form, and she shifted uncomfortably. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Suddenly, Doctor Lecter spoke up again. "I am the one that treated your wound, along with my head nurse, who you have met already. I have allowed no one but us to enter your room, and have not told anyone about your… condition. Your secret is safe with us. No one but Barney and I know you're a woman."

He seemed serious. The doctor's tone was relaxed but not to be taken lightly. And no one but he or Barney had entered the room as far as she was aware, nor had any of her superiors burst through the door and arrested her. Her eyes flitted from the wall to the window, with nothing but sunshine greeting her.

Clarice sighed softly, her shoulders sagging, and she looked up at the doctor from her position in the bed. "While I appreciate the discretion doctor, may I ask why? Why haven't you told anyone about me?" It wasn't difficult to imagine the kind of reward he might have received from turning her in.

Truthfully," the doctor said calmly, "I admire your determination. Your… courage. I would not wish suffering on anyone with the tenacity you seem to possess. So I will continue to protect you, if you wish."

She was missing something here. No one, in her experience, did something for a stranger without any benefit to themselves. "You want something in return," she stated in a tone that brokered no argument. Oh, she could imagine what he was thinking of. She doubted unaccounted for women frequented this hospital very often. He surely would want to take advantage of her.

Clarice noticed his lip twitch as if it wanted to form into a smirk. "You could say that, although whatever it is you have in mind, you can forget. I just want to ask you questions, about yourself. You've impressed me, and I want to know more about you. Call it professional curiosity if you want."

Just questions? She wasn't sure that she believed him.

"Questions like what, exactly?" she asked, meeting his intelligent gaze.

Suddenly, Doctor Lecter began to stride forward, coming to rest at the side of her bed. Now that he was closer, she noticed just how cutting his eyes were. They seemed to stare into her own and see everything. "Well," he said, leaning forward ever so slightly, "I assume the name "Jack" was taken from either someone you know, or someone you respect. I am convinced it is not your real name." He paused for a moment, eyes shining. "What is your name?"

The inquiry almost startled her. Certainly, it was not what she expected. She craned her neck so as to see the doctor more clearly, as if to tell him she wasn't one to be toyed with. If he was planning something, she would be ready for it. "Clarice," she said after a second. "Clarice Starling."

The doctor hummed, apparently satisfied. "Well, it _is_ nice to meet you," his voice sounded lowly.

There was another silence, but she felt as if she could still hear his voice throughout the room.

He turned and walked around her bed to the single window, hands folding neatly behind him. He became still, his pale skin reflecting the sun as if he was a marble statue. "Now, Miss Clarice, I am curious. What brings a woman into the military?" he asked, so immobile it looked as if he had not spoken at all. "It would take a great deal of effort and secrecy. Why not simply join as a field nurse?"

His head turned to look at her, and she could see the shadows of his muscles working in his neck. "Clearly you are from West Virginia, and the Americans are oh-so very new to this Great War raging around us. Their recruitment services are not desperate the way the European offices are. West Virginia is coal country, rich in black gold; and you are not unattractive, and likely would find a husband to care for you with ease. So, the question stands. Why are you here?"

Clarice frowned, eyebrows furrowing in discomfort. "I understand the concept of blackmailing doctor, but I-"

"Oh no," Doctor Lecter jumped in, spinning around smoothly, arms returning to in front of his chest from behind his back, "I'm not blackmailing you. If you don't want to answer, then by all means; don't. I am merely curious about you - and I am not a cruel man."

"If you don't mind my asking doctor," Clarice said, distilling the nervous shuttering in the back of her throat, "Why do you care? About who I am, or what I've done."

"Maybe you don't give yourself enough credit," Doctor Lecter hummed pleasantly. "If you were confronted by Joan of Arc, or Nero of Rome, wouldn't you want to know what made them tick? A phenomenon should be studied and questioned."

She shrugged off his comparisons as best she could. His… _compliments_ made her feel tight. At least they were most likely admirations, strange as they were. Doctor Lecter was indeed an odd and unique man - like a hurricane in the night. Unseen and unpredictable and intense.

"Perhaps we should start with this," the doctor said suddenly, "I think it's clear to both of us that you will be in this room for a long time. Is there something in particular you'd like me to get for you? Books, a radio, perhaps a few board games? Your mental attitudes are just as important as the physical."

She thought for a moment. She had never been one to sit and listen to a radio. "Books and board games sound fine to me."

The doctor nodded slightly. "Any in particular that you're fond of?"

Clarice hadn't read much since before she had joined the army. As for board games, she had only really ever played the classics. "Not really," she shrugged, lips flattening into a small line.

Again he nodded. "I'll be sure to stop by a bookstore on my way home today."

"You don't need to buy me anything," Clarice insisted, feeling uncomfortable once again. "I'll read anything you can find."

He waved off her complaints. "I hardly think so, Clarice. The literature in this hospital is hardly fit for even the most brain-dead patient. I would be hesitant to use it as tinder."

Clarice chuckled slightly, relaxing into the pillows behind her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a small smile spreading across Doctor Lecter's features.

"Is there anything else you need before I take my leave for today?" The doctor asked, approaching her bedside once more. He stopped a small distance away, gazing down at her with mild concern.

"When's dinner?" She asked, suddenly aware that her stomach was revolting against her.

Lecter's smile widened fractionally, and Clarice might have been mistaken, but there was a strange glow in his eyes. "Dinner will be served tonight, Miss Starling. I believe today they are serving steak, if I am not mistaken. I've always been partial to it myself."


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal Lecter pulled into the parking lot of the Belvedere local bookshop, a modest little building that had been in family-owned operation for the past hundred or so years. He enjoyed the store, as the cashier never tried to talk to him outside greeting him when he entered. The store also carried a large variety of books, including a fair number of rare titles.

He walked in the green front door, squeaking as he swung it open. A little bell above chimed as the wood hit it, and he stepped inside. The air was warm and musty. He could see the dust floating gently in the shop, only being perversely noticeable in the shafts of light that filtered in through the windows. The entire building smelled like books and paper, a scent that inspired in him some sense of culture.

"Good evening Doctor Lecter," the cashier said kindly, looking up from his chair behind the counter.

"Good evening," Hannibal replied, nodding at the man. They said nothing more to each other.

Hannibal walked casually through the store, floorboards creaking under his weight. He glanced among the many titles, wondering what Clarice would like. As he passed over the varying books, he picked out a few that might interest her. _The Canterville Ghost_ perhaps? A decent choice. He thought the idea of rescuing ghosts was rather amusing. _The Invisible Man_? Hannibal's lip twitched, and he added it to his stack. She would likely relate.

He continued walking among the rows of bookshelves, glancing through with interest. Sure, he could have just found her something from the hospital library, as there were a great number of books there. But he wanted her to have something hand-picked. Something from him.

The biography section came into view, and Lecter felt a smirk creep up onto his face. It didn't take him long to find a book on Joan of Arc. It was a beautiful copy, written by a scholar from Oxford. A golden stencil drawing of a fire was emboldened on the front. He placed it on top of the ever-growing pile in his arms. He also found a biography of Nero, and added that to the stack for good measure.

Happy with his choices, the doctor wound his way out of the store's maze and approached the counter. The cashier looked up once again, a courteous smile on his face. "Will that be all, doctor?" he asked, taking the books from Hannibal and adding up the total on a small calculator next to him.

"Yes, for today." Lecter replied, watching him press the buttons and listening to the soft clicks of the machine.

"Your total comes to two-hundred seventy-nine."

Hannibal reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a crisp leather wallet. He folded it open and pulled out a two-hundred franc banknote and change. He cupped the currency in his palm and handed it over the counter, pouring it into the cashier's outstretched hand. The man quickly counted up the total before sliding his choice books into a paper bag.

"Thank you," the doctor said cordially as he accepted the package. Without anything more he needed to accomplish in the bookshop, he let himself out. The little bell above the door signaled his exit with a quiet chime. Instantly the cool, fall air whipped against him, signalling that the end of the day was quite near.

There were a number of planted trees surrounding the small parking lot that shook in the wind, gold and red leaves rattling forebodingly. A couple got caught up in the air and escaped the branches' fingers, racing across the land. They brushed past his heels softly and Hannibal took a deep breath, allowing the crisp air to chill his throat.

The sun was nearly below the horizon at this point, and the sky was just beginning to touch the idea of violet rather than red and orange. It must have been getting close to seven o'clock. Wasting no more time, he began to head towards his car; a clean, red Schacht Roadster. He climbed into the driver's seat and placed the sack of books onto the chair next to him. Lecter started up the car, and it rattled to life. He backed out of his parking spot, and turned onto the cobbled road; heading towards his residence just a few minutes outside of town.

The house he lived in was one of the largest in Belvedere. It was constructed of red brick, muted in color. The architecture resembled that of a castle in a way, although it would not be mistaken for one. Tall, paned, white windows adorned the walls, looking out onto the substantial front yard of cut grass. The manicured field was only broken by a long semi-circular driveway of packed dirt that led up to the double front door; which was constructed of a dark, carved wood. The oil lamps that lined the path were already lit in preparation of his arrival, supposedly ignited by the maid in his employment; who only did so on her way out as she was heading home for the day.

The Roadster rambled up the driveway, coming to a stop when it had reached the entryway. Hannibal cut the engine, and the machine shuttered into silence. Lecter climbed out of the driver's seat, grabbing the paper bag in the process, and closed the door behind him. He then approached the backseat, and from under one of the cushions he retrieved an opaque plastic box. He tucked it under his arm, ignoring the substantial weight of the case. Without the engine, he could hear the sound of the remaining crickets singing in the night before they died in the cold of winter.

Hannibal removed a ring of keys from his pocket, easily picking out the correct fit into the front door's lock. The key slid in without protest, and the door swung open with little effort. Doctor Lecter closed it behind him and locked it once more.

He flicked on the lights, and a yellowish glow filled the hallway, originating from tasteful lights contained in frosted glass. The hallway was wide and tall, arching in an almost cathedral-like structure that made his movements echo. He headed towards the kitchen, still carrying the books and black box under each arm.

He passed a few open doorways on his way towards his destination, containing what looked to be a parlor, and even a small library. Eventually he reached the kitchen.

The most impressive room thus far, it contained a variety of cooking equipment, hanging herbs, and a solid wooden dining table. One wall seemed to be entirely made paned glass, and it looked out onto the dark, rolling fields that surrounded his residence. The kitchen was a massive room, and was almost as tall as it was wide; consisting of the same arching architecture that the hallway and rest of the house seemed to be built from. The walls were a sort of plastered, cream-colored brickwork, held together by fitted wooden beams that came to a point at the zenith, giving off an italian vineyard-esque feeling.

Hannibal placed the paper bag of books down onto the table near one wall of the room, knowing that he would not forget it the following morning when he left for his shift at the hospital. He then took the opaque box he had been carrying and placed it on the countertop.

The doctor felt his own excitement and revelled in it. Quickly he approached the sink and washed his hands, drying them on an embroidered hand towel that hung on a peg next to it. He then returned to the box and carefully peeled open the soft lid, revealing the contents as he had left them earlier that day.

There they were; the dark slabs of human flesh, sliced with skill. They laid there limply, just waiting to be cooked. He reached under the countertop, opening a drawer and pulling out a large, white cutting board. He then reached into another drawer, retrieving a thin and sharp cutting knife.

Now, he strode across the floor towards a dark metal ice box; the design similar to that of a chest. Hannibal pulled open the lid, and a waft of cold steam erupted from the device. He ignored the sheer cold, rummaging around its contents until his hand came upon a frozen ham haunch. He lifted the slab from the frozen coffin and retreated across the kitchen and put it on the cutting board. Then, Doctor Lecter found the aged swiss wheel he had purchased, and that too joined his ingredients.

It would be a few minutes until the ham thawed, so in the meantime Hannibal concentrated on preparing the flour-based coating. He found a bottle of paprika among his many spices, as well as a larger container of flour; and he poured the correct ratio into a glass bowl. As Lecter mixed the contents together, he recalled the events of the day.

Clarice was certainly an interesting woman; not that he had imagined otherwise. Clearly, she was not one to simply fall down and surrender to whatever force that tried to manipulate her, she had stood her ground when responding to Lecter's questions. She was bold. She was strong. He had enjoyed talking to her, and certainly was anxious to find out more.

He considered looking into her past, to maybe try to pull up her military records and see where she had been deployed, for how long, and when she had enlisted. But he did enjoy the chase; the campaign of earning Clarice's trust and the idea of her confiding in him willingly. Lecter decided that he would wait to begin his own investigations, at least until he could determine what she was willing to share with him. He was a patient man, after all. And they had a long time to get to know one another.

He wondered how she would handle being bedridden for so long; which was at least a few months. She didn't strike him as the type to remain idle. Lecter wondered what kind of board games she might enjoy, as he had a great number in the chest somewhere in his personal library. Perhaps a strategy game would suit her well; something to energize her mind while she healed. It would also serve as a decent excuse to play a game or two with her.

Doctor Lecter figured that Clarice would enjoy Asalto, a board game that involved attacking and defending the opposing player's fortress or army, which he felt that Clarice might get a kick out of; given her military history. It was unlikely that she'd had the chance to play it, which meant that he would need to teach it to her; something that he was certainly looking forward to. Chess was a given of course; as he, unsurprisingly, was very good at it.

The ham was undoubtedly thawed by now, so he tapped the spoon he had been mixing with on the edge of the bowl, knocking off excess flour. Hannibal returned to the meat and cutting board, and began the process of preparing them by slicing thin pieces of pork and aged swiss cheese, wrapping them into the slabs of human chest muscle. Then he coated the package with the flour and paprika mix he had created, placing them on the side of the cutting board once finished.

Hannibal let himself get lost within his thoughts as he continued cooking, now beginning to heat up butter upon a skillet. He never failed to appreciate his position in life, as it was hard-fought and hard-won. He very much enjoyed his post as head physician, as well as the funds he earned which allowed him to afford such a large and impressive home. After all, he could have been enlisted to fight in the war. The concept unsettled him.

Of course, the French army had attempted to put him on the front as a field medic, which didn't come as a shock considering his experience as a doctor. It didn't seem to matter that he was by no means French. They had still tried, and might have succeeded. But he managed to convince the officers that his talents were better placed at a facility like Belvedere Hospital. To his relief, they were easily persuaded. Hannibal had no desire to spend his time in some trench, unable to fulfil his desires under the scrutinizing eye of so many watchful men. Not to mention the idea of having superiors. It caused bile to rise in his throat.

He tossed the human-ham pockets onto the skillet, and the sound of meat sizzling filled the air instantly.

It was his distaste of authority that made him even more curious about Clarice Starling. In his brief chat with her, he had seen some of himself in her eyes. A desire for advancement, power even. A modem of control in her life. It made him wonder why she had ever wanted to join the war effort, to live under the constant supervision of some captain or lieutenant or whatnot.

He placed the skillet down and went to retrieve dry white wine, and then added it to the skillet, the sound of sizzling becoming all the more intense.

Lecter hoped that she would tell him more about herself soon. He also hoped that she would not perceive his questioning as a threat, or any form of blackmailing. He'd have to make that more clear to her in the future.

Hannibal covered the meat with a lid, and turned down the stovetop, intending to let the meal simmer for a while. He put the remaining meat away in the icebox. In the meantime, the doctor washed his hands and began to head towards the stairs in order to change out of his work clothes.

Retreating through the hallways, Lecter made his way towards where he knew the steps to be. They were metal, spiraling upwards until they hit the landing for the second floor, and then continuing upwards to yet another floor that he could not see. Grasping the cool iron railing in one hand, he began to ascend.

The second floor was much like the first, same arching hallways, same plastered brick. He flicked on the lights and headed towards the master bedroom.

It large and well-decorated. A huge charcoal drawing of a parisian city hung on one wall, surrounded by an assortment of smaller sketches, each as detailed as the last. Any visitor would believe that they were the work of some great master, when in fact Hannibal had been the one to draw them. He considered himself a Renaissance man, and had no qualms about displaying it.

A king-sized bed was perched upon a small platform in the right-hand corner of the room, and at the end was a chest of drawers. Just next to the bed was a wall of windows leading out to a balcony. He ignored everything and headed towards a closet on the opposite wall, and quickly changed into something more comfortable; which ended up being loose slacks and a grey tank-top.

He had never had guests in his home. Even Barney, who he was friendly with, had never step foot inside of the building. While he liked the nurse, he did not consider him a friend, per se. He had never brought women to his residence, few as they had been. Lecter never considered bringing someone here. None had seemed worthy to share in his personal life.

Hannibal briefly wondered if Clarice could be the first, but he quickly dismissed the idea, unsure as to where the thought had come from.

He headed back downstairs to the kitchen. His cordon bleu was nearly done.

Not caring to put so much more thought into his meal, the doctor quickly made up the toppings, and arranged everything nicely on a plate, pouring the sauce over the top of the lightly charred and seasoned flesh. The doctor retrieved the aged bottle of chardonnay from a cabinet and poured himself a glass. He then sat down to eat.

It was delicious, of course. Mouthwatering, tender, and full of flavor. He had always found the texture and taste of human to be similar to veal, and it _was_ very appetizing. He continued eating alone, all the while watching the light outside of the window die until none was left.

Soon he was finished, and Hannibal wrapped up the leftovers; setting them carefully into the icebox to be eaten later. It was late now, and he was tired. He would have an early start in the morning, so he opted to head to bed.

Lecter ascended the spiral staircase once more, feeling full and content and ready to drift away. He entered his bedroom, then into another door built into the wall to his right which led to a small bathroom.

It wasn't long until he had finished preparing to go to bed. He climbed under the heavy covers and switched off the electric, immersing the room in darkness. The only light now came from the few stars that escaped the blackened clouds. Today had been a great day, without a doubt. Hopefully the next was just as decent. Hannibal closed his eyes and drifted off; sleep coming easy to him.

He didn't dream. He never did.

 _Brrring! Brrring!_

At first he wasn't sure he had heard it, that noise.

 _Brrring! Brrring!_ A pause. _Brrring! Brrring!_

He had been asleep for at least a few hours, judging by the stiffness of his muscles, and how his mind ached at being pulled from unconsciousness.

 _Brrring! Brrring!_

It was the telephone from downstairs. Feeling vaguely annoyed, Hannibal climbed from the warm blankets of his bed and headed down the spiralled steps towards where he knew the phone to be. It was still dark, and he took a second to check the time on a clock in the hallway. Three oh five in the morning. He very much hoped this was important. Should it be some solicitor, he might just be having another round of cordon bleu tomorrow.

The doctor eventually made his way to the phone, picking up the hearing receptacle and placing it against one ear. "This is Doctor Lecter," he said into the speaker.

"Doctor, this is Barney," came the nurse's voice, crackling against his eardrum.

"To what do I owe this _late_ pleasure?" Hannibal asked, allowing a small amount of annoyance to slip into his voice. Barney usually didn't call unless it was important, but Hannibal needed to give an outlet to his frustrations.

"It's Clarice," he said, "She fell out of bed and her wound reopened, and then fell unconscious soon after."

Hannibal felt something drop in his stomach, something solid like a boulder. "I'll be right in," he said, suddenly feeling awake.

"I managed to stop the bleeding for the most part, but I can't stitch up the laceration. I'm calling from outside surgery room seventeen B. Please be quick, doctor," Barney said, and the doctor could hear the concern in his tone.

"Of course. See you soon, Barney."

He hung up.


	5. Chapter 5

The sky was grey, and it was cold. The birds were gone, and in their place was only the frigid wind. Loud sounds echoed from across the fields; shouting and gunfire and explosions. It smelled like mud, thick with clay and gritty against her skin. Hard breathing, breath billowing into the sky. Clarice pulled her thick trench coat closer around her, shielding the skin of her neck from the wintery air. It helped only a little.

Her cold fingers, stiff under the fabric of the gloves, held tight the rifle in her grasp. She was shaking, maybe from the cold, but maybe not. Clarice forcefully pinned herself against the frozen dirt wall, closing her eyes for a second.

A sudden blast shook the earth. The ground roiled violently, heaving soil and shards of timber in every direction. Her ears rung from the impact. A spray of dirt hit her, rolling off of her helmet and showering her in mud and small rocks. She clasped the rifle closer to her chest.

Her hearing cleared up, and the shouting continued; sounding closer from behind the wall against which she stood. She didn't speak German. She didn't know what they were saying.

Clarice gasped, her eyes shooting open, and she hit her head against the trench wall; breathing heavily. It was now or never. If she didn't move, they would find her here and kill her.

Terror ran through her veins like shards of broken glass. She could have vomited right then and there. Clarice Starling would die here. She was going to _die here_.

Her limbs convulsed, the rifle chattering against her coat buttons as her hands shook. Clarice had known she probably wouldn't make it out alive before she had come, yet here she was.

It was now or never.

Now or never.

 _Now._

Clarice hurled herself from the trench wall, leaping out as fast as she could and open firing into the evening air. Her eyes could hardly process the speed at which things next happened.

She didn't know how many German soldiers there were, but there were too many to count. Clarice's bullets ripped through the man closest to her, who had been manning a machine gun until part of his arm and face was torn off. The next few men were about as lucky as the first. None of them had been expecting her assault, and none were able to fire at her until her body hit the wall opposite her, the trench mud shielding Clarice from the adversaries' bullets as they fired. She could feel the vibrations against her cheek as the gunshots lodged themselves within the packed dirt.

She could hear one voice above the others.

" _Töte diesen amerikanischen Abschaum!"_ the captain screamed. " _Töte diesen amerikanischen Abschaum!_ _Wie ist er hier reingekommen!?_ "

Clarice could feel the tremor of the German soldier's boots as they charged towards her hiding place. Quickly she scrambled upwards, firing a few desperate shots at the corner of the wall; managing to hit an oncoming man in the chest. It bloomed red like a rose, and he gasped. But he didn't fall. She fired again, this time hitting him just below the left eye. There was just enough time to watch the muscle and bone explode outward as he fell backwards.

Another soldier had been coming around the corner, and upon seeing the previous man's death, he scrambled backwards and disappeared out of sight.

" _Es gibt nur einen von ihm! Sei keine Frau und töte diesen Bastard! Gehen!_ "

Clarice shot again as suddenly three more soldiers appeared, one nearly managing to shoot her in the thigh before she killed him with a round to the neck. He screamed, sounding more like an animal than a human being. Clarice shuddered.

She didn't realize how hard she had been biting down until she tasted blood, feeling a small hole on the side of her mouth. The female soldier breathed hard through her teeth, and they stung from the cold.

Still squatting in the cramped corner of the trench, Clarice knew that sooner or later she would fall. More soldiers came, this time in greater numbers. As she struggled to pick them off, she failed to notice the man creeping up on her from the right. He took care to flatten himself against the wall in order to hide himself, and he watched her with dead blue eyes like a predator's.

All Clarice could hear was the sound of her rifle and the languished screams of those she shot. It was horror. Madness. This was Hell if there ever was one. A hysterical laugh bubbled out of her throat as she witnessed the cruelty that she wrought. The death.

 _Red, icy-hot!_ It shot up her torso as if someone had drove a hundred-thousand needles into her flesh. She couldn't breathe. Her muscles felt like they had been grabbed and yanked out, ripping out skin and meat as if they had been a poorly-removed hangnail. White exploded in her vision, and all she could see was _nothing_. Bile rose in her throat, and it felt like acid to her esophagus.

She couldn't help the scream that ripped from her throat as the knife tore open her flesh and hacked downward. Her eyes whipped to her right, looking directly into those icy blue pits that seemed to be so empty and bottomless.

"Y-you! I _knew_ it was you!" she hissed, shock freezing her movements for a second. The man said nothing, but allowed the ghost of a malicious, watery smile to be birthed on his lips. And then the second was over.

It was _dark_.

And she realized she was still screaming.

Her naked fist pounded the floor, which was hard under her muscles. That red-hot pain flashed bright in her eyes as it throbbed like death itself from her right side. Clarice was on her chest, tile cool and static under her body. And it was still so _dark_.

The lights flicked on, filling her vision with a confusing, yellow glow.

"Miss Starling! Miss _Starling_!" A voice. She knew that voice. " _Clarice_! You're okay, I promise. You're safe here."

Barney. It was Barney. She was in the hospital.

Lungs heaving, Clarice managed to quiet herself. She felt the cool tile under her cheek and realized that she had fallen out of bed. Despite her eyes swimming in the new light, she braced one hand against the floor and tried to push herself up in an attempt to get herself back on the bed. But her hand slipped from under her, and she crashed downward.

"Miss Clarice, please; try not to move. You've reopened your wound," Barney insisted, rushing to her side. Was that panic in his tone?

She lifted her hand to inspect it. To her surprise, it was covered in blood. And then she remembered the throbbing pain at her side. Clarice gasped at the agony, resting her forehead against the tiles in an attempt to stave off the sensation of haziness.

"I'm going to get a gurney, okay?" The nurse said softly. "Don't move until I get back."

But she couldn't see him, try as she might. Her vision swam, and Clarice could barely make out the vague shape of his figure.

"Clarice?"

She had a hard time hearing him over her gasping lungs. Did he turn the lights out? Why was it so dark all of a sudden? And what was that noise, that strange and distant wailing? It was so _familiar…_ she knew it from somewhere.

Clarice passed out.

The next moment took up an eternity. It was a semi-lucid blackness that seemed to stretch like cloth across time and space. She could feel her body being moved, but Clarice was outside of herself looking down; transparent like a ghost but altogether nonexistent. Her body was bleeding heavily, and she could see the red stain swell through her clothes and drip down her side.

A low moan escaped her lips, and Barney began dragging her down the hallways faster.

Everything began to get dark again as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Time passed confusingly, everything occurring as if it took a thousand years, but she was moderately certain that it all happened in but a few minutes.

Clarice was out again.

And then she wasn't.

"... this happen?" a voice came like a call through the fog; far away and unknown.

"I heard her screaming on my rounds and came to check on her," another voice said, slow and warped. "She was already on the ground, pounding the floor."

"Did she say anything?"

"No, but she tried to get up and she slipped in her own blood. She looked so... distant."

Clarice tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so _heavy_. She couldn't move her limbs, and her mind felt slow. She tried to moan, but all she managed was a quiet creak of her vocal cords. The conversation taking place around her seemed to pause momentarily, as if they had heard her. But to her dismay, it continued.

"I'll take her to her room, Barney. Why don't you head home for the night? I'll see you tomorrow evening."

"Are you sure, Doctor?" came the hesitant response. "Will she be fine?"

"Yes, of course," the other man said, mild annoyance clear in his tone, "I don't plan on just forgetting her alone in the hallway."

"Ah, sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I guess I'll just see you tomorrow then."

She could hear the sound of heavy footsteps receding. Doctor Lecter was still there, standing over her. He sighed, and she felt herself moving; the gurney hitting the grout between the tiles below and vibrating with the shift. This time, she managed to open her eyes; just a little bit. The dark hallway was a blur above her. Her side throbbed, but it no longer sent piercing stabs of pain through her body. Clarice managed to look down at her person, and she saw that someone had changed her hospital gown so that she was no longer covered in her own body fluids.

They arrived at room four without encountering another soul. Doctor Lecter opened the door and pushed the gurney inside the dark room.

"You left quite a lot of blood on the floor, Clarice," the doctor said, sounding vaguely amused. Did he know she was awake? "Luckily it seems your bed escaped any stains."

"I-I know," Clarice managed to mumble, her voice rough.

The doctor hummed, rounding to her side in order to transport her to the mattress. "I wonder what caused you to have such an episode…?" he wondered aloud, pointing his question at Clarice.

She was silent for a moment as she felt her body being slid onto the covers, only jarring her wound slightly. Clarice felt his hands, chilly against her skin. She shivered slightly at the feel of it, but his touch helped cool her too-hot flesh. It was not unpleasant.

"It was just a dream," she muttered, trying to evade the question.

"That must have been quite the dream then." The doctor's voice vibrated in her ears lowly. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, his shadowy figure lit in the silver light filtering through the open-curtained window. He was looking at her intently, as if he was trying to see through her. A small frown formed on her face as she noticed. Doctor Lecter's eyes shone in the moonlight, and after a moment he turned and moved to the back of the room.

He started collecting a handful of paper towels in his hand. She could hear him turn on the faucet and wet them. "Was the dream about your time in the trenches perhaps?" The doctor murmured in the dark as if he was talking a child, but still somehow maintained his traditional politeness.

Clarice flinched, unable to stop herself. She looked away from the doctor, instead gazing at the window and the empty sky outside.

"It's not uncommon, I've found, in the victims of war," the doctor said, like he was trying to console her. "Everyone has a breaking point, even those as strong as you, Miss Starling. Though, I have to admit, few have ended up on the floor in a lake of their own blood." He sounded neutral, as if he hardly had an interest in the subject. "I wonder what happened to you, out on the front?"

Turning from the window, Clarice saw him bend down to wipe up the red mess from the floor with the towels, the puddle already partially dried. He did so slowly, deliberately, as if he was enjoying the act. His hand moved like a brush over canvas. Practically as if he had sensed her eyes, Doctor Lecter looked up; holding her gaze intently, like a prisoner. She felt the breath catch in her throat, weighed down by the impossible magnitude of his stare.

"I-I don't know if I can…" she stammered, not daring to look away.

"Not sure if you can talk about it yet, Miss Starling?" The doctor chided, "Do you feel uncomfortable confiding in me? Do you feel guilty by what happened? Or even, perhaps you enjoyed the experiences of war, as if they filled in you some hole that had long been pushed aside - ignored. But never completely gone from your mind, always lingering in the recesses of your thoughts, or when you wake in the dead of night."

Clarice was frozen, terrified. She could hear it again; the strange and distant wail that she had heard earlier, before passing out. The sound that she couldn't recognize in her confused state. But there it was, the screaming. The screaming of the lambs. Remote, but always present; it never left her. It made her blood run cold. How could he…?

She didn't feel uncomfortable confiding in him, she found, as strange as that realization made her feel. She also didn't feel guilty about her actions, not in the sense that what had happened in the German trenches didn't need to happen. It very much did, and that was no fault of her own. It was the fact that, for that short time, the lambs were quiet. They were gone. There was silence, blessed silence.

"I…" She trailed off.

This time, Doctor Lecter smiled. He stood up, the bloody towel in his hands, dripping down his arms. It was hard to see in the dark, but she felt as if his nostrils were flaring; almost like an animal's. "It's quite alright, Clarice. No need to say anything." He paused, the smile still perched upon his lips, as if he had just thought of a funny joke. "You are quite safe here. Nothing will happen to you under my watch. I can promise you this."

He made for the trash can, abruptly breaking eye contact with her. Almost instantly, she felt as if she was falling, nothing below to catch her descent. He had lifted her up into the sky and just as easily let her go. He was leaving for the night, leaving her to that dream again; to the lambs, and those empty blue eyes.

"Wait, doctor!" she called out, her voice cracking through the quiet air like a thunderbolt.

As if yanked by an invisible string, Doctor Lecter stopped and turned around, one eyebrow raised in question.

She wasn't sure what to actually say now that she had his attention. What did she even want from him? She just didn't want to be alone, to have to face her reality again by herself. "Doctor Lecter," she trailed quietly, "I… don't want to..."

He nodded as if he had understood her perfectly, despite Clarice not even being able to form a complete thought. "I'll go get a chair, hmm?"

Clarice could only nod mutely as the doctor once again turned and exited the room. The door clicked softly shut behind him, and Clarice had a moment to reflect.

Had she just asked Doctor Lecter to spend the night in her room? Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought about it. She really had, hadn't she? It was an odd notion, and Clarice wasn't sure how she was supposed to feel about it. A small part of her though was very much relieved that she didn't have to be alone for the night. But, then again…

And then it came back to her. He had pegged her so well; he had seen the demons that stalked her, the wailing that had followed her ever since her childhood, ever since that day at the ranch. Clarice felt feverish, and her hands began to shake. She grasped the bed below her in a vain attempt to calm herself. The screaming of the lambs… She couldn't think about it now. She just couldn't. She wouldn't let the doctor see her like this, so weak.

Clarice took a shaky breath, angrily wiping the back of one hand against her eye, the skin coming back wet. She sighed hard, clenching her jaw, trying to think about anything other than the dark cloud that plagued her. It came surprisingly easy.

Doctor Lecter, of course. He had such an immediate and intimidating presence. Someone that perhaps she should even be afraid of. Yet she wasn't, was she? He was strange and intense, but seemed genuine in a way that she was not used to. The doctor seemed to be honestly interested in her; in what made her tick. Even his questions, which were barbed in their surgical precision, seemed borne not of malice or vulgarity; but rather were designed to obtain the very building blocks of _Clarice Starling_.

And he wasn't the only one interested in the other. Clarice wondered what went through Doctor Lecter's mind, or why he cared about her in the first place. He was just so unlike anyone she had ever met. He was a strange amalgamation of scholar and doctor and _predator_. It made Clarice wonder what kind of person he was.

The doorknob turned, and the figure of Doctor Lecter appeared. On one arm was balanced a leather chair, nestled in the crook of his elbow like a coat hanging from a rack. He entered the room gracefully, as if not weighed down in the slightest. Quietly, the doctor placed his luggage down next to Clarice's bed, back facing the open window.

She watched him silently, not speaking even as he sat down, elbows resting on his knees and hands folded, facing her with rapt attention. Suddenly a wave of embarrassment swept across her being. "You don't need to do this for me, doctor," she said not quite looking at him.

"Don't lose your nerve now, Clarice," the doctor said lightly, as if her unease amused him, "After all, you were honest earlier. A good relationship relies upon candor. It would be a shame if we started lying quite so soon."

Clarice was silent as she studied him.

"Ah, you're cold. Allow me to get you a blanket," the doctor said suddenly, sharply. He stood up and headed towards the cabinet in the back. She heard him rummaging through the drawers.

She was surprised, but not by his sudden outburst. He was right. Doctor Lecter had realized she was cold even before _she_ did.

He returned with a quilt in his hands. As Clarice began to reach for it, the doctor moved the blanket out of reach. When she looked at him questioningly, a coy smile climbed up his face. "I wouldn't want you disturbing your laceration. Allow me."

Without waiting for approval, he unfolded the blanket and unfurled it. The quilt floated from the air, covering her fully. It was quite warm and soft, and she couldn't help but allow a small sigh of contentment to escape her lips. Doctor Lecter however did not seem satisfied, and began to smooth out the imperfections. Clarice chuckled softly. He looked like a doting mother hen.

"Something amusing you, Miss Starling?" The doctor asked, giving her a side-eye.

She shook her head like a child hiding a secret, stifling her smile. "Nothing, Doctor Lecter."

The man hummed, although it seemed to be in malcontentment. "Hannibal," he said simply.

"What?"

"My name is Hannibal. It's polite for roommates to call each other by their names, isn't it?" he said flippantly, looking up at her and smiling lightly. Apparently satisfied with her blanket, he sat down in the leather chair once more. He leaned back, folding his hands on his lap and crossing his legs before letting his head drop onto the back of the chair. "Goodnight Clarice."

She hesitated. "Goodnight… Hannibal."


	6. Chapter 6

"My name is Hannibal," the doctor said quietly, watching Clarice out of the corner of his eye. "It's polite for roommates to call each other by their names, isn't it?" he asked, amused by his own joke. She didn't say anything, but seemed to take his comment seriously.

He was quite pleased when Clarice had asked him to stay with her for the night, even if it had not been in so many words. He could tell that whatever she had dreamt about had unsettled her deeply, and he had been concerned about leaving her alone anyways. She might have fallen out of bed again and hurt herself, and he'd have the great task of stitching her up for the second time that night. As good as he was at it, suturing was by no means his favorite activity.

But here he was - intending the ride out the night listening to her breathing. Not a terrible way to spend his time by any account. Certainly he'd had worse nights.

"Goodnight Clarice," he said softly, closing his eyes as his head laid against the back of the chair. He could hear her chest rise and fall, and the mild shift of the blankets as she made herself more comfortable. Hannibal could even smell the waves of bodily perfume that wafted from her body; the remnants of cheap soap and blood.

"Goodnight… Hannibal," Clarice's voice came, smooth and feminine in the night air. A small bolt of electricity shot up his spine upon hearing her speak his name aloud, in her palatable tone. He breathed a soft sigh of contentment.

Hannibal listened to her soft inhales and exhales as he would a fine music. He didn't allow himself to doze off, not because he was afraid he wouldn't wake up if she started dreaming, but because he simply wanted to enjoy her presence. There was something special about this woman. She was so unlike any other he had met, so strong and resilient… He felt a strange desire to protect her from any who would seek to harm or worse, change her. The other nurses would not understand her plight, and would either attempt to turn her in to the authorities, or would mercilessly ridicule her.

Hannibal simply would not have that.

Clarice's breathing began to level off - an indication that she had fallen asleep. She seemed to be peacefully slumbering at the moment. He wondered if it would last.

He then began to think on their conversation. He had seen similar cases of psychological trauma in other patients he had treated. Most had some amount of mental baggage, more often than not in fact. Clarice was no exception.

The doctor had brought up her the roots of the trauma in hopes of understanding her, and he knew she inferred that; at least to some point. His questions were pointed, sure. But they got to the heart of the matter. Hannibal was not one to hedge around the issue.

To some degree he had expected the female soldier to become angry with him, or to retreat inward and become quiet. He was not surprised to see the latter, but he had been surprised to see her expression. So many words in one look, so many fears and desires wrapped in one moment of time. It had impressed him, the intensity of it. And he had understood her.

So long as she sought some kind of release from some past agony. And when she had found it, it was nothing short of a miracle. Now he needed to only find out what she was running from; what haunted her in the dark of night when no one was there to comfort her. What afflicted Clarice Starling? And was there something he could do to stop it?

Hannibal cracked open his eyes and looked down at the form of the woman lying in the bed. The silver light from the outside illuminated her body, highlighting her features in moonlight and shadow. Her lips were parted, and she breathed softly; chest rising with every inhale. Her eyelashes were long, and they fluttered with every shift of her eyes beneath them. One arm was laid across her stomach, and the other reached up to touch her collarbone. Her head was turned slightly towards him, and he took in every detail; memorizing it with perfect accuracy.

No, this was not a bad way to spend his night. Not at all.

Perhaps when he arrived home tomorrow evening he would sketch her. No one had ever said that Hannibal did not appreciate the female form. Such beauty deserved to be immortalized and displayed in the most prominent of museums. But his home would have to do. After all, he did enjoy a house with a view.

Doctor Lecter spent the next long moment of time observing the sleeping woman, immersing himself in her world of soft breathing and subtle perfume. He began to wonder what she would taste like. Would she be sweet? Would she have more red or white meat? What wine would he have with her? He pondered this for a while. Perhaps she'd go well as a human bourguignon. He sighed. But... the world _was_ certainly a more interesting place with her in it. He resigned himself to never tasting Clarice Starling; a fate that he was more than happy to accept. But that did not mean he couldn't dream.

Eventually, Hannibal felt the creeping tendrils of exhaustion crawl up his limbs. It was best to get some amount of sleep tonight, even if it was not as much as he would like. Still, the time had been well-spent in his opinion. The doctor leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing his body to relax so that sleep could overtake him.

He felt himself begin to slip into unconsciousness.

And soon, Hannibal Lecter was asleep.

The birds were the first to wake in the morning. They sang their chiming melodies from somewhere out on the moors; breaking the quiet of the morning mists. The sun was just coming up to burn away the fog that hugged the landscape. There was a light breeze that whistled against the windowpane, causing a mild draft to pick up in the hospital room. This is what ultimately roused Hannibal from his sleep, the feeling of cool air against his skin.

The doctor still felt tired as he opened his eyes, his tense muscles protesting as he sat forward in the leather chair, already feeling his stiff muscles complaints. Clarice was still soundly asleep, having apparently been calm all throughout the night. He had heard no suffering from her, as he would have woken up should there have been even the slightest sign of trouble.

Briefly the doctor wondered if he should stick around until she regained consciousness, but ultimately decided that he could not loiter here any longer. He had duties to attend to, and he would return to check on her as soon as he had the chance. Quietly, Doctor Lecter left Clarice, the door softly clicking closed behind him.

He began his morning as he usually did, by making his rounds. Hannibal visited patient after patient; speaking to the injured men, adjusting medication, checking blood pressure… It was all rather dull, but something that needed to be done if he wanted to keep this job. He did his best to maintain a facade of sympathy for the soldiers, one which no one seemed to question. He did have quite a bit of practice under his belt.

It was turning out to be an entirely normal day. The same routine he had practiced a thousand times before. He appreciated it, to an extent. He really did. But he was eager to get back to the enigma in room four. Clarice Starling.

"Doctor Lecter?" came a female voice from the hallway. He was listening to the lungs of a bedridden man who had been sent to him with chemical burns. Undoubtedly the result of severe phosgene gas exposure. He would recover, but until then would remain in considerable pain.

He pulled back from the man. "Yes, Ardelia?" he asked evenly.

"There's a man here to see Jack. He says he's his superior officer," the woman said. "I know you don't want anyone going in there except you and Barney, so I came to get you first."

Hannibal startled at this news. "Thank you, Miss Mapp. I'll be out to see him shortly."

The nurse paused before leaving. "He's in the lobby. I asked him to wait." Having said that, the woman disappeared from the doorway.

Someone was here to see Clarice. This wasn't unheard of, but it was an awkward circumstance. He doubted this man knew her secret, but if he did? The thought made him uncomfortable. Both situations made him uncomfortable.

He wasn't sure if Clarice was awake yet. Should he go and ask her what this man knew of her? It was worth a shot. He didn't want to alert any outside parties to her condition. Hannibal quickly finished up with the man he had been inspecting and hurried towards room four.

He arrived without fanfare at the simple wooden door. Before entering, he listened inside to see if she was awake. He could hear the sound of shuffling, barely distinguishable through the thick wood separating him from Clarice. Accompanying that was the soft but even breaths that belonged to the soldier, indicating that she was, at least in part, awake. The doctor knocked lightly on the door.

It was a moment before she responded. "Come in," came her raspy voice; sounding groggy from the sleep she had just woken up from. He entered.

Clarice was much the way he had left her hours before. She was still lying beneath the quilt he had given her the previous night, but it was folded down so that her torso was exposed. Clarice looked up at him, standing in the doorway, craning her neck to escape the embrace of the pillows beneath it. "Hannibal," she said blearily, sounding pleased to see him.

It struck him that she used his name once again. He definitely liked the sound of it on her lips. He hoped she would continue to use it.

He stepped into the hospital room, closing the door behind them so that no one would overhear their conversation. The leather chair was still where he left it that morning, so he approached it and sat on the edge facing Clarice.

She watched him, following his movement across the room and into the chair; sleep still written on her features. "I don't think I've slept that well since before the trenches," she sighed contentedly. "Thank you, doctor."

He nodded distractedly, leaning forward to catch Clarice's gaze. He did so easily; and she locked her eyes with his. He could see the hair on the back of her neck rise, and her pupils dilate. He was aware that his general demeanor was intense, intimidating; and that was quite by design.

"There's a man here to see you," he said evenly, watching closely for her reaction. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Who is it?" she asked quizzically, confused.

"He claims to be your superior officer," Hannibal responded. Clarice's eyes widened.

" _Jack_ ," she whispered to herself almost without realizing it.

Hannibal lifted one eyebrow. Jack was the name she had assumed. Perhaps she had gotten it from him? In fact, that was the most likely case; considering the lack of other Jacks in the area. Sure, a common name, but considering her reaction the doctor was quite sure that this man meant something to Clarice. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"He wants to see you, _Clarice_ ," Doctor Lecter supplied, straining her name as if to ask her without words if this man knew her secret. How many were privy to the knowledge he had accidentally stumbled upon almost a week prior? A few trusted friends? Were there more? Perhaps none knew, and he was just lucky enough to have found out by accident. She wasn't unintelligent, and he believed Clarice would be able to keep her condition under wraps if she had to; which she very much did.

His words snapped her out of her stupor. "No, he can't see me! Doctor, please, you have to keep him away."

This _Jack_ didn't know. This made him feel… relieved somehow. As if he had been spared betrayal; which was a ridiculous thought. He banished the feeling and returned his attention to the woman in the bed.

Clarice had seemed to take his silence as a refusal. "Doctor Lecter, Jack doesn't know that I'm a woman," she said starkly. "He won't understand. Crawford would turn me in without even thinking about it."

Doctor Lecter quickly made note of his full name. Jack Crawford.

"Stickler for the rules?" Hannibal asked, interrupting her tirade. "A good old boy?"

She seemed to hesitate, as if she hadn't considered the notion before. After a moment, she nodded faintly; uncomfortably. "Just… get rid of him? Tell him I'm still unconscious, or that there's a risk of infection if he enters my room or something."

Hannibal had not intended to refuse her plea from the beginning. "Of course, Miss Starling. After all, I said that I would not let any harm come to you. I am not about to make a liar of myself now," he told her, and Clarice instantly relaxed. She slid down the pillows behind her head and sighed.

"Thank you," she breathed.

Without having anything else pertinent to say, Hannibal stood up swiftly, and made for the door. As he was about to grab the knob to let himself out, Clarice called for him. Like a axe stopped abruptly by the wood of a tree, his eyes shot towards hers. Her head was stretched up at an awkward angle in order to better see him.

"Really… thank you."

The doctor's features softened ever so slightly, although he'd never admit it to another soul. Her insistence was delicious. It was intensely agreeable to his more _primal_ nature. "My pleasure," he said in his usual tone - hiding his satisfaction - and then exited, the door clicking shut behind him. He breathed a quiet, content sigh, and began to make his way towards the lobby to meet the man known as Jack Crawford.

As he entered the semi-circular room, there was only a single man in the lobby. His back was turned to him, and he was staring out of one of the windows that lined the walls, looking out onto the vast grasslands of wildflowers and heather that surrounded the hospital. Hannibal did not recognize him, and assumed him to be Jack Crawford.

Upon hearing the doctor's deliberately audible footsteps, the man turned around. He held himself with a military precision; no movement wasted. His face was artfully devoid of emotion; and to the untrained eye, blank as a canvas. However, Hannibal was not ordinary, and noticed that Crawford seemed to regard Doctor Lecter for a moment, before apparently deciding that he could be trusted well enough. His arms, rigid before, now moved fluidly as he opened both palms towards Hannibal.

"You must be Doctor Lecter," he said, phrasing it like a comment rather than a question. The lips above his pronounced jawline formed into a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes; but the gesture wasn't malicious, he noticed. It simply wasn't genuine.

"Good morning. I assume you're the one here to see Jack?" Hannibal asked, fully knowing the answer already.

The other man reached one hand up and brushed back his immaculate, greying hair with the palm of his hand, a movement that seemed to be designed to put someone at ease. As far as the doctor could see, and even smell, he wore a fair amount of hair product, so the action was ultimately unnecessary. "That would be the reason. I'm Jack Crawford, his superior officer," he responded. "Is he awake?"

A perfect segway into a good excuse. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Angus is currently still comatose and is not in a stable enough condition to allow visitors," Hannibal said, feigning concern. He watched as the other man's eyes widened marginally, only to regain his neutral expression a moment later.

Crawford frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his tone sounding honestly dejected. He paused for a moment. "If you have time, doctor, I'd like to know about his medical treatment so far, and what your plan is for the next few weeks." The man's watery brown eyes met Hannibal's from across the room. "I'd like to remain in the loop."

Again, he phrased it like a comment rather than a question. He would rather not talk to this man. If at all possible, he wanted to keep outside parties in the dark about Clarice as much as he could manage. And secondly, for some reason, the concept of _Jack Crawford and Clarice Starling_ made the base of his spine itch uncomfortably.

"I'm afraid I can't release Jack's medical information until he signs an informed consent release," Doctor Lecter stated as impassionately as he could. This wasn't true; but perhaps Crawford would not pick up on his white lie and let him, and by extension Clarice, go. But then Crawford's lips parted, and Hannibal knew that the man knew better.

"The military has a right to request access to active duty soldiers' medical information if he is admitted to the hospital, doctor. As Jack Angus's superior officer, I am requesting access to his medical treatment and any information pertaining to his case," he said rapidly. He was clearly an intelligent man. And one that liked the sound of his own voice, apparently.

Resisting the urge to frown, the doctor waved one hand, beckoning Crawford to follow him. "Very well, as you wish. Follow me."

Crawford began to stride forward, the long fabric coat he wore streaming out behind him. Hannibal turned and began to lead him in the direction of his office.

They wove through the maze of sterile hallways until the arrived at a large and ornate door, engraved and made of a more solid material than that of the others. The doctor grabbed the doorknob and pushed, entering the room and not looking to see if Crawford had followed.

"Have a seat," Hannibal said, rounding the heavy desk and sitting in a tall leather chair. The newspaper he had been looking at the other day was still sitting on the surface, and he removed it with a swift motion to tuck it away in a crate. The other man sat down gracefully into a wooden desk chair opposite him. His hands laid casually on the arms, looking expectantly at Doctor Lecter.

Now the issue at hand. What to tell Jack Crawford about Clarice Starling? He considered the officer. Clearly intelligent and observant, it was likely he would not be satisfied with a vague report. Even more so considering the apparently intimate but personally distant relationship the two of them seemed to share. It was apparent that Jack Crawford cared for her, but was so wrapped up in his own personal regulations and mannerisms of masculinity that she could not trust him fully.

He couldn't outright lie either, as his medical career was scrutinized enough as it was. He very much did not want the police clomping around his hospital, investigating the nature of his deceit and stumbling upon his extracurricular activities in the morgue.

There was really only one path of action available. He would do both.

"As you may have already been informed," he began dispassionately, "Mr. Jack Angus had sustained a severe laceration to the right side."

Crawford nodded.

"Mr. Angus lost a lot of blood, and we gave him a transfusion as quickly as we were able. As fast as we were, there seemed to be… side effects. I can't connect the two events without further proof, so this is merely me hypothesising." He carefully worded his explanation to allow himself space between truth and lie. When in place of an explanation there is only a void, Hannibal was happy to fill it with his musings.

The other man seemed enraptured by Hannibal's voice. "What happened?" he demanded.

"He seems to slip in and out of consciousness, occasionally waking up screaming and injuring himself further," Hannibal explained. "I'm not sure if this is a result of brain ischemia, or if it's simply a result of psychological trauma. But currently we do not feel that it's safe to let Jack receive visitors, you understand."

And there it was; his carefully crafted explanation. It was close enough to the truth to be considered correct -but not factual- and far enough away to loosen Crawford's interest in seeing Clarice.

The other man leaned back, pondering Hannibal's words. "I see," he said quietly, after a moment. "How do you treat… ischemia?"

Crawford had fallen for his bait. "Well," he began, "we can only really keep him on an IV and wait for him to regain consciousness; enough to talk to us. Only then I can perform an assessment. Until that, we can only wait."

The officer was silent again as he thought. Hannibal left him to it, gazing around his office. Dust floated lazily through the shafts of light from the large window behind him, filtering in through the thick, velvet curtains. There were a number of bookshelves in the room filled with medical textbooks and a couple biographies. Nothing like his personal library at home, of course. Hmm… home. Suddenly he was reminded of the remaining serving of cordon bleu in his icebox. His tension faded slightly at the thought.

"Well," finally Crawford spoke up again, "I suppose there's nothing left for me to do here today." He stood up smoothly, eyes finding their way to Hannibal's. "I'll be in Belvedere for a time, so I'll return in a day or two to see if Jack has woken up."

Oh great. Perhaps Hannibal had been too optimistic when he had thought he had gotten rid of the man.

"Very well," Hannibal relented, watching as Crawford made his way to the door. A flash of annoyance crossed his vision. He didn't take kindly to those who interrupted him. Briefly Hannibal considered just… well, eating Mr. Crawford. To remove that regimented man from his hospital and his life.

But, he wasn't stupid. The American military would surely come looking, and that was a mess Hannibal didn't have the patience to sort. He sighed, frustrated.

Doctor Lecter looked over his shoulder at the window. The sun was getting low on the horizon. It was nearly time for him to head home. Maybe tonight, while he ate his meal, he would imagine the meat was Jack Crawford's; as his knife sliced through the flesh, pierced by his fork, and he lifted the seasoned muscle to his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

Barney arrived soon after Crawford left. Hannibal had remained in his office, filling out some paperwork he had been meaning to get done earlier that day. It was tedious work, and so was glad to finally be relieved by the head nurse. The tall man entered his office quietly. He leaned around the door tentatively; not wishing to disturb Doctor Lecter from any important work.

"Barney," Hannibal said evenly; an indication that the man was free to enter. He did so, and approached the desk.

"Good evening, doctor," he greeted him kindly, and then paused. "...How's Clarice? Was she okay for the rest of the night?"

Doctor Lecter took the stack of paperwork he had been filling out and tapped them on the desktop, then filed them away in a cabinet behind him. "Yes," he responded, allowing a small amount of the relief he had felt to slip into his voice. "Clarice is doing fine. She slept for the rest of the night and her sutures look about as well as you'd expect."

Barney let out a small sigh. "I'm glad to hear it. I'll be sure to keep a closer eye on her."

"I don't doubt it. Thank you," Hannibal said honestly. He stood up. "I'm particularly looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight. Do you need anything from me before I leave?"

The nurse began to shake his head no, but stopped himself. "Oh, I was wondering… I heard some of the nurses talking in the break room as I came in. Clarice's superior officer came to visit?"

A slight frown crossed Doctor Lecter's features as his annoyance at Jack Crawford suddenly resurfaced. "Ah. Yes, he did."

"That's pretty unusual," the nurse commented; picking up on Hannibal's irritation. "I can't imagine a man like him would have too much free time to toss around, especially to come and visit a single wounded soldier."

The doctor agreed. "I can only guess as to why he decided to stop by," he said, feigning confusion.

He could guess very well as to why he showed up out if thin air. He liked her. They had a relationship. He briefly wondered if Jack Crawford could, in the back of his mind, detect Clarice's womanhood. He wouldn't be surprised if the officer had caught himself desiring her… sexually. Despite the obvious taboo. The thought made him angry. He took a moment to try and calm down.

"You don't seem to like the man very much," Barney commented. "Did you take him to see Clarice? Did he... _know_ about her?" his voice dropped into a quiet murmur as he said this.

Hannibal let a small sigh escape his lips. No, he most certainly did not enjoy his earlier company. He was much too interested in Clarice for his liking, and seemed to have an unfortunate habit of sticking his nose into Doctor Lecter's business, which irritated him. In his experience, men like him caused trouble for the doctor. "No. Miss Starling asked me to keep him away from her."

Barney nodded, looking as if he was deep in thought. As much as he appreciated the head nurse's company, he did want to get home at a reasonable time. "If there was anything else…?" he asked plainly, allowing his words to trail off into the air between them.

This seemed to startle the other man. "Oh, _oh_! I'm sorry Doctor Lecter. I don't want to keep you. I'll just get to starting my rounds." He turned sharply and headed towards the door, moving quickly. "I hope you have a good night, doctor."

"You as well, Barney."

With that, the nurse headed out the door and disappeared into the fading light of the hospital hallway. Hannibal was soon to follow, having not brought any of his belongings in his haste to reach Clarice the previous night.

Soon the doctor arrive at the lobby of the building, golden shafts of dying sunlight reaching through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The potted ferns stood quietly, their leaves reaching up towards the glass like fingers; clutching at the glare as if to steal it. He ignored the scene, instead opting to head out the large double doors in front of him into the evening air.

It was cold out already, his breath somewhat noticeable in the form of steam. He was only wearing a thin white shirt that cut off just over his shoulders. It did little to shield his skin from the icy bite of the wind as it crossed over the darkening fields. The heather leaned in the breeze, and that familiar scent of grass wafted over Hannibal; crisp and musky. He did appreciate a view like this.

Eventually the doctor made his way over to his Roadster and smoothly ascended to the driver's seat. He started up the engine, and the machine roared to life, vibrating under his feet and the intense smell of gasoline reaching his nostrils. Hannibal backed out of the parking lot, and began the trip north to Belvedere.

He arrived at his home in a reasonable amount of time, parking the vehicle at the front of the building. The doctor swiftly unlocked the front door and stepped into the cool solitude of his home. He breathed in the still air, hearing nothing but the creak of the trees outside and the quiet chirping of the last grasshoppers of the year.

Doctor Lecter made his way to the kitchen, feeling the need to cook something to help shed the frustration of the day's events. And he already had something in mind, something special. Quickly he washed his hands in preparation.

He approached the ice box pushed against one wall of the room, opening the lid and briefly letting burst of cold air rush over him. After a moment, he looked inside. _Ah, there it is_ , he thought, pulling out the opaque black box he had brought home the night before.

Hannibal set it on the stone countertop, pulling back the soft plastic lid. He reached inside, pulling out a large, red morsel; stiff in his fist and still trickling blood. He set the heart down onto a cutting board, packed up the remaining meat, and stored it away in the icebox once more.

The doctor returned and looked down at the heart in front of him. If _only_ it were Jack Crawford's. He hummed to himself, imagining what the man would taste like. Most likely a more stringy specimen than Clarice would be, due to his age. Although, he likely had more red meat. Jack would perhaps be dry, but in the moment Hannibal wouldn't complain. And he would probably pair the man with an aged Pinot Noir. Truly, it was a shame the man wouldn't be joining him at dinner tonight. The imagination can only provide so much satisfaction before hitting a proverbial wall.

He began to slice the heart into small portions, setting them aside. Once complete, Hannibal prepared a marinade of olive oil, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, salt, oregano, thyme, and pepper; then rubbing it into the meat before leaving the mixture to sit. Hmm… what to do while he waited?

Doctor Lecter let his eyes drift, eventually coming to rest on the brown paper bag sitting on the table. The books he had bought for Clarice the day before. He had forgotten them in his rush to get to the hospital. He felt annoyed with himself. Usually his mind was a steel trap, even in the most dire of situations. After all, if it wasn't, he wouldn't have been able to operate for so long undetected in Belvedere.

The books brought another thought into his head. Clarice. He remembered just how exquisite she had looked, draped in moonlight across from him in the hospital room. His desire to capture her essence in a drawing had not yet escaped him, so he let his feet lead him to the library where his easel and charcoal were kept.

Hannibal walked down the hallway, passing a few doors before entering a room near the entranceway. It was dark, the only light being the vague grey wisps of starlight that made their way through the partially-opened curtains on the opposing wall. The doctor flicked on the lightswitch, bathing the room in a yellow fluorescent glow from overhead.

Each wall was lined with dark wood bookshelves stacked neatly with a large variety of books; all hardcover and in excellent condition. They had been painstakingly organized alphabetically, and there were only a few open spots for future book purchases Hannibal had been hunting down. A small chandelier hung from the ceiling, dainty glass baubles reflecting the light and shining fiercely. The room itself was of a moderate size, and in the far corner was a magnificent carved desk. An easel stood in front of the window's grey curtains.

As soon as he took another step in, the smell of old books crashed like an oceanic wave against him; and Hannibal breathed contentedly. He strode inward, approaching the easel, next to which a few crates full of paper and canvas sat. He picked out a large white sheet of stiff paperboard and sat it on the little shelf. He then reached into a small chest behind the crates and removed the lid. Inside was a multitude of materials -ink, pencil, paint; the like- and retrieved a stick of charcoal.

There was one more thing. Doctor Lecter left the window, approaching the desk; on which sat a silver phonograph. He placed the needle onto the record and cranked the machine's handle. A sweet, melodious piano began to sound throughout the room. _Goldberg Variations_ by Bach.

Having everything he needed, Hannibal began to work.

His hand moved over the canvas fluidly, with purpose. The black lines were stark against the white; contouring slightly as he imagined Clarice's form. Smooth curves underneath the quilt; highlighted in the moonlight. Her soft lips parted as she breathed slowly, evenly. Long eyelashes fluttering slightly as her eyes moved beneath. The tips of her fingers, worn from duty but still beautiful, that stuck out from under the covers to touch her collarbone…

She was like Aphrodite. Born of the vast ocean and beautiful above all others. His drawing was beginning to reflect this. Soft, bare shoulders draped in flowing fabric. Hannibal wondered what she would look like with long hair, so he drew it. Dark strands cascaded down her sheet-covered breasts, wrapping around one supple arm that folded with the other in her lap. From the canvas Clarice gazed outward, a look of intimate patience and vast strength. Her fingers were long and alluring, pale even drawn in charcoal.

Hannibal admired his progress, the melodious piano still playing in the background. There she was; Clarice Starling, captured in a still moment upon canvas. Her features were bright, though no smile graced her lips. It was in her eyes. It was the way Doctor Lecter had seen her looking at him. She was draped in a white gown, though it slipped off one shoulder, revealing the flesh that connected her silky neck to her bicep. Long, dark hair treaded down her body until it rested just above the edge of the frame.

He found himself smiling at his work. It looked just like her, ignoring the hair. He wondered where he would put it. Would he display it somewhere in the house? Or somewhere secret, so that only he would be able to see it? In the end, the doctor decided to leave it in his library, poised just above the surface of his desk. He was in here often enough to thoroughly enjoy the piece.

By that time, the heart slices had certainly marinated long enough. He began to head back to the kitchen, intent on finishing his meal.

The bowl was where he had left it. Before he removed the contents, he took out a large skillet and began to slice up onions and peppers into the pan. The smell was delicious already. When he was done, he drizzled the vegetables in olive oil, and placed the pan on his oven. His was one of the newest on the market, and was powered by electricity. He clicked the dial until the gas lit up and instantly began to heat up the skillet. Hannibal added the heart and began to cook the contents.

The room began to smell like the savory meat he was frying. The onions began to brown, and then the peppers followed. Due to how thin he sliced the heart, it wasn't long until that too was thoroughly cooked and hot.

He had done it once again. The doctor removed the pan from the heat and turned off the gaseous flame; the room beginning to cool down almost at once. A slight breeze came in through the closed window from outside; cool and refreshing. The doctor took the pan and carefully scraped it onto a large, white, ceramic plate. He never intended to compete in any sort of cooking competitions, but he had to admit that his dinner looked as well as it would taste. A mixture of earthy red, savoury browns, and the oranges and yellows of the peppers he had added. Doctor Lecter moved the plate to the table, next to the books, and retreated towards his wine cabinet. He pulled out an aged bottle of Pinot Noir as well as a crystalline wine glass and returned to the table.

Doctor Lecter uncorked the bottle and the scent wafted to his nose. He had certainly not wasted his money on this. Quietly, he poured the liquid, dark red, into his glass and swirled it around absently; watching the wine try to climb up the glass sides. But soon the smell of his dinner caught his attention once again, so he began to eat.

The doctor lifted the speared heart and peppers up to his lips, closing his eyes and truly wishing it was Jack's, as if that would somehow change the situation. The officer would never bother him or Clarice again. He wouldn't be stalking the streets of Belvedere, nor stalking the back of Hannibal's mind. But it wasn't Jack's.

On the bright side, it was a delicious meal. He was a master of his craft.

As Doctor Lecter finished up, he noticed just how late it was. The window was pitch black, now only reflecting the kitchen rather than the rolling hills he knew to be outside. He glanced at the wall clock, ticking quietly in the corner. It was past eleven. Hannibal could feel the creeping tendrils of desire crawl up his bones; the desire to sleep. He had not slept well the previous night for obvious reasons, and was quite content to head to bed now.

Of course, he would have, if the phone hadn't started ringing.

A frown crossed his features. Hannibal placed his dishes in the sink to be cleaned by his maid the next morning, and began his way towards the phone. Who could it be? It was really only the odd telemarketer or Barney that called the doctor. Had something happened at the hospital?

He reached the phone, picking up the headpiece and placing it against his ear, and leaned forward towards the speaker. "Hannibal Lecter speaking," he said in greeting to whoever was calling.

" _Doctor_ ," came the breathless voice.

"Barney?" Hannibal asked. Already he could feel his muscles tense and his grip tighten on what he was holding. "What's wrong?"

"It's Clarice again. She woke up screaming. I managed to keep her from hurting herself this time, but she won't calm down," Barney explained in a hushed tone.

This wasn't as bad as it was yesterday night, but still Hannibal felt his adrenaline rising. Again, she had had the nightmare _again_. Was this going to be a nightly occurrence? He knew he shouldn't feel this intense desire to rush down to the hospital to make sure she was okay, as Barney was capable of taking care of the patients as well as he was, but he did really _want_ to. "I'll come down and talk to her," he found himself saying.

"Are you sure?" the nurse asked, sounding as if he was concerned for the doctor's wellbeing.

"Yes, of course. The more I know about her situation, the better I'll be able to help her." This was partially true. But Doctor Lecter wanted to see with his own eyes that she was safe. And he wanted to be the one to make her feel that way; because he knew he would do it better than anyone else.

"Alright then, doctor. I'll keep checking in on her until you arrive."

"Thank you Barney. I'll see you soon."

He hung up.

Hannibal breathed deeply through his mouth. Two nights in a row she had woken up screaming. This pattern was likely to continue if nothing changed. He would stake his career on it. What could he do to help?

He pondered this as he made his way quickly back to the bag of books on the kitchen table, snatching them in a fist and exiting the room. The doctor then headed towards the library, intending to gather the board games he had promised Clarice. There was an assortment of colorful boxes on one of the bottom shelves of the bookcases. He bent down, scanning the titles. Ah, there was Asalto. He grabbed it. And there was his chess game. He grabbed that as well, fitting them under one arm and heading for the entryway.

Doctor Lecter threw open the front door, stepping outside. It was cold out, the grass covered with dew that clung to the leaves like a child to their mother. The air was sharp, and it stung his nostrils as he breathed. He approached his car, setting the bag and boxes on the passenger's seat, and then slid into the driver's, starting the engine.

It roared to life, shuttering metallically in the thin, icy air. His breath billowed up in great clouds, dissipating in the night sky. The doctor pulled out of the driveway, heading south towards the hospital through the empty town streets. It was really only when he was nearly at his destination that he realized he had forgotten his coat.


	8. Chapter 8

Clarice continued to wake up each subsequent night for the next four days. Every time it was the same - the doctor would head down to the hospital in order to calm her down, and then he would stay with her until the following morning. Hannibal would go through his daily routine, albeit much more tired than he would have liked, and would head home. That night he would, without fail, receive a call from Barney telling him that yet again Clarice suffered from severe night terrors, and Doctor Lecter would repeat the process all over again. While he did very much want the soldier to heal, he was beginning to tire. This couldn't continue.

On the bright side, he felt as if he was getting to know the woman much better. She was remarkable really. They didn't do much talking, but Hannibal had plenty of time to observe. She was wickedly smart and strong-willed. Two skills he felt the greater public sorely lacked.

Hannibal held back a yawn as his shift neared its end on the fifth day. His mind, a finely honed instrument, was starting to feel dull from lack of sleep. The muscles in his back complained with every movement, as they were stiff from the uncomfortable nights he spent dozing in the chair within Clarice's hospital room.

It looked like nothing was going to change. The soldier showed no signs of improvement, and if nothing happened soon then Hannibal might pass out of exhaustion within the next few weeks.

The doctor was in his office looking bleakly over a stack of papers sitting in front of him on the desk. His mind was elsewhere. What was the best course of action from here on? He couldn't keep coming down to the hospital every night, nor did he want to. He also did not want to stay here forever, constantly watching over Clarice until her wounds healed. No, he was not a substantially young man, and he would much prefer to sleep in his own bed.

He couldn't ask Barney to watch her twenty-four seven. He had other duties to attend to. Not to mention, it only seemed that the presence of Hannibal was enough to calm her, for whatever reason that may have been.

On multiple occasions, the head nurse had been able to rouse Clarice from her nightmare, only for her to remain blearily confused and terrified until the arrival of the doctor. If he had to guess why only he had that effect, Hannibal had carefully cultivated a calm and unassuming demeanor in order to attract the least amount of suspicion to himself, and to soothe anyone in contact with him. Perhaps she could sense this, in her dazed state. Like some kind of animalistic sixth-sense, leftover from humanity's days in the wild.

What options were left? He thought about it for a moment, still staring blankly down at the papers in front of him. He couldn't stay at the hospital, and he couldn't go home either. Maybe… what if…?

Hannibal frowned. He wasn't sure if Clarice would agree to that. But what else was there to do? The doctor sighed slightly, and stood up. Thin sunlight poured through the window behind him, diluted with the last gasps of the autumn sun. Winter was just around the corner. He could barely hear the rattle of the golden leaves on the skeletal trees outside anymore. It was bound to snow soon. You could smell it in the air - that crisp metallic chill that blanketed the earth.

The doctor exited his office and entered the hallways of the hospital. He passed a few nurses, rushing along and staring intently at the clipboards in their hands, avoiding the doctor's gaze. He didn't mind, as he had no desire to talk to them anyways.

Soon Hannibal arrived at the familiar room that Clarice inhabited. He could hear her inside, breathing evenly, the covers shifting over her torso with every movement. The doctor rapped on the wood of the door with one knuckle, the sound echoing down the empty hallway like gunshots.

"Come in," the soldier called, sounding worn-out and tired. Frowning, he entered.

There were bags under her eyes as she looked up at him. She was sitting against a mound of pillows behind her, arms folded on top of something sitting in her lap. He recognized it instantly. The biography of Joan of Arc he had bought her almost a week prior. It was flipped upside-down on a certain page, marking wherever she had paused in reading it.

"Enjoying the story?" he asked nonchalantly, motioning towards the downturned novel.

It seemed to take her a second to register his words. "O-oh yeah." She paused. "It's kind of sad though. What happened to her, at least."

Hannibal nodded. "It seems many do not take kindly to women dressing as men and charging into battle. Even if they supposedly receive visions of piety from God." He paused, a smirk forming on his lips before disappearing just as quickly as it had came. "Are you a religious person, Clarice?" he asked, genuinely curious. He wanted to know more about her - all he _could_ know about her.

There was a moment of silence as the woman thought, her tired eyes looking down at the book in her hands. She seemed nervous. "I'm not sure," she said, uncertainty in her tone. Hannibal was quiet, allowing her to talk. "I'd like to think there's someone out there… But life is just so _unfair_. I don't know." She looked up, meeting the doctor's gaze.

He nodded slowly, assuringly. He felt quite happy, knowing that she was brave enough to share that with him. Most people in this country were quite zealous, and did not take kindly to those who questioned their faith.

"...Do you, doctor?"

His focus snapped back to Clarice. "Do I believe in God?"

She nodded, looking sheepish for even asking.

"No. I haven't for a long time," he said absolutely, leaving no room for an explanation. To her credit, she didn't ask for him to elaborate.

Clarice cleared her throat. "So," she said, her tone changing, "Was there a reason you came to see me?"

"Yes, there is. I had something I wanted to bring up to you," he said evenly, approaching the leather chair next to the bed and sitting down in it. Her eyes followed him the whole way, sparkling with curiosity.

He cleared his throat. "Your nightmares aren't going to go away unless something changes," he began, and her curiosity faded. Now her features were filled with a look of guilt. Hannibal leaned forward, putting a hand on the side of her bed comfortingly. "No, it's not your fault. This isn't something you can control."

Her eyebrows furrowed anyways. "I know," she said quietly. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it. I've been keeping you from getting a good night's sleep for almost a week."

The doctor shifted forward on the chair, sliding closer to the woman in the bed. "It was my choice."

Clarice didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Her eyes shifted away from Doctor Lecter, as if she had just found something interesting on the opposing wall.

"But… I may have an idea that could be beneficial to both of us," he said. Clarice looked back at him, her blue eyes intent and prominent against her dark, underlying circles. He definitely had her full attention now. "Though, I'm not sure if you'd want to go through with it."

"What is it?" she asked, leaning forwards and towards him.

A small smile began to climb up his features. "I can't keep coming down here to the hospital, and I also can't leave you here alone. So, perhaps you would consider coming home with me? That way I can provide for you throughout the night, and you'll never be far."

This clearly surprised her. "Like _living_ with you? At your house?"

Hannibal nodded. He was quite serious. "If you're worried about medical care, I can assure you I am quite capable of taking care of you outside of the hospital. You'd be perfectly safe with me."

"Is that allowed? Me leaving the hospital, that is."

Doctor Lecter allowed himself a small laugh. "It's allowed if I say it's allowed. I'm the head physician here. I make the rules. And I think this is a good idea."

Clarice was still unsure. "What about your job here? You can't spend the entire day with me."

Hannibal nodded in agreeance. He had already thought about that. "I would ask Barney to stay with you while I am gone." There really was no reason for her to refuse this offer, save for the discomfort of the situation. They were still getting to know one another, so the transition was bound to be awkward. But Hannibal was confident that they could make it work. And then, maybe he could get a good night of sleep for once.

"What about Jack?" she asked suddenly.

Jack Crawford. Her superior officer. The doctor highly doubted he would approve of their little plan. The man struck him as the distrustworthy type. He'd want to know why Clarice had been moved, and where, and then he would likely want to go see her. The idea of Crawford stepping foot inside of his house made anger crackle up his spine like lightning. No. No way.

But was there really any way out? He couldn't lug Clarice back and forth from the hospital every time the officer decided to pay a visit, and that would be assuming the man never made a surprise entrance. Damn him for making his life more difficult. He had absolutely no desire to cater to Crawford, but if he didn't… well, much worse things could happen.

On the bright side… this did open up the opportunity to invite the man over for dinner sometime. The thought cheered him up slightly.

"I'll have to let him know where you'll be. But I won't let him near you if you don't want me to. I can promise you that."

Clarice seemed moderately placated. "I guess we don't have many better options."

The doctor frowned. "No, that we do not. So, miss Clarice, would you like to come home with me?" he asked, a strange tone seeping into his voice; like honey on a bear trap. It seemed almost predatory.

The idea of Clarice in his own home… now _that_ was a delicious thought. Tantalizing. For a moment, he wondered if he'd be able to control himself. He'd have her all to himself. But the moment passed. Of course he would be able to control himself. He was a professional, after all. But that didn't mean he couldn't fantasize. She was simply _ambrosial_ to his senses. A feast for his eyes. Yes… like the work of a great renaissance artist.

Doctor Lecter shook himself off his mental track. Now was not the time.

"Ok then," she said slowly. He was pleasantly surprised. He had expected her to be much less forthcoming. Perhaps she trusted him more than he had suspected. For some reason, this pleased him. Hannibal was not really personal enough with anyone, save for Barney, for someone to trust him. The feeling was quite pleasant.

This time, the doctor gave her a genuine smile, vague as it was. "Good. I'll go get the paperwork. You'll just need to sign it. And I'll have to talk to Barney, but I highly doubt he'll refuse."

"You'd better hope not," Clarice said, humor evident in her voice.

"Well, I'll be right back then," Hannibal said, getting smoothly to his feet and heading towards the door.

"Ah, doctor, wait!" Clarice called out. He turned around.

"I'm getting into a habit with saying this but… thank you. Really. You've gone out of your way to help me." She paused. "I'm not sure how many others would do the same."

"I'm just doing what any good doctor would do," he commented evenly. He wasn't sure if that was true. Clarice was a special case, wasn't she? He hadn't gone out of his way for anyone else. And he didn't plan on it.

Clarice looked at him incredulously, as if to say ' _Really?_ '. And she was right. The soldier was observant. He liked that about her, he really did. But the doctor wondered if it was a good thing. Especially since she was about to be inhabiting his home. Now was a good time to bow out of the room. "I'll be back, Miss Starling."

Without allowing another word to be exchanged between them, Doctor Lecter ducked into the hallway of the hospital, quietly closing the heavy wooden door behind him. It was silent; the hanging bulbs casting yellow light onto the sterile, white tile. The window down the hall showed the greying sky outside; darker even with the setting sun.

Hannibal wound through the maze, heading towards the employee lounge; a small room with a kitchenette, an old sofa, and a shitty folding table. Really it looked more like a jail cell than somewhere to relax. He tried not to spend any more time in there than he had to.

He began to think about Clarice. The idea of cooking for her brought a kind of feral pleasure to his mind… but he would not stand to disrespect her in that way. It would be a discourtesy. However, Jack Crawford would be a different story. In fact, he intended to invite the man over at some point. Sure, he was incredibly uncomfortable with him being in his house, but the thought of feeding him human steak was simply too enjoyable to pass up.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly didn't notice the man upon him until it was too late. Just as he was turning a corner he noticed him; or rather the incoming footsteps, light and uncomfortable in their pattern.

The first thing the doctor noticed was his long, blonde hair. It had long since abandoned his forehead, receding to near the top of his head where the rest was slicked back behind his ears. Deep crease marks marred his forehead, and below them; two intent blue eyes that seemed confused to have run into someone. He was thin, his hands wrapped nervously around one another, pressed to his chest. His thumb played with a ring on his finger - a ring that seemed too large to be a from a wedding.

"O-oh! Excuse me," the man said, voice slightly slurred; seemingly a product of genetics rather than drunkenness. "I didn't think I'd run into anyone this late."

There was something off-putting about this person. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and he looked like some backwater rube that had taken a wrong turn and somehow crossed Doctor Lecter's path. And yet his gaze was sharp, unsettling even.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Hannibal asked, his tone conveying no desire to aid the man in any way.

"Uh, I was jus' looking for someone," he said cryptically, looking towards the floor quickly.

"Visiting hours are over."

"Oh, okay. Sorry. I'll come back tomorrow." The man made to dodge the doctor and head further down the hallways and deeper into the hospital. Doctor Lecter put out a hand, stopping him. The man halted just short of touching his arm, stepping back frantically as if he'd just seen a monster.

"The exit is this way," Hannibal said, pointing in the direction he had just been heading. The man really did not look like he wanted to follow him, but after a moment complied. They both headed towards the lobby, enveloped in a tense silence.

Hannibal gave the man a sideways glance, watching him stride alongside him. Who was this stranger, and why was he here? Who was he looking for? Especially at such a late hour?

It seems he didn't need to ask. "I was trying to find a soldier here," he said into the space in front of them. "You know of any new arrivals?" Now, he turned his head; looking directly at Hannibal, his lips parted as if they had been talking about the most surprising thing that had ever happened.

Doctor Lecter took a moment to respond. He considered the mysterious man. The doctor didn't trust him. He was almost comically meek, but the act didn't reach his eyes. "We get new patients almost daily," he said, dodging the question. "You're going to have to be more specific."

The other man seemed to hesitate. "Uh… No, s'okay. I'll just come back another time."

The lobby suddenly appeared before them, and the man quickly slunk outside, disappearing into the darkening evening. Hannibal watched him go, noting the unsettling feeling that he had left in the pit of his stomach.

What was that smell that followed the strange man? He lifted his head and sniffed lightly. It was musky… like dirt and basement. But there was something else… he couldn't quite place it. It was foreign to his nose, and he couldn't pin down the source.

He stood there for a moment, alone in the lobby, before forcing himself to find Barney.

Luckily, the tall man was not difficult to locate. He was where Hannibal had expected him to be; sitting in the worn sofa within the employee lounge. His legs were strewn uncomfortable across the floor, as the seat was much too small for him to properly sit in. The nurse looked up from the old book he had been reading when Doctor Lecter entered.

"Doctor, good evening," Barney said pleasantly. He then noticed the expression on Hannibal's face. "Did you need something?"

"Yes. Miss Starling and I both agree that moving her recovery to my home is a much better use of our time. I would like you to stay with her during my shift during the day. I'd like to move her tonight, if possible."

The head nurse looked surprised by Hannibal's frankness. He spluttered for a moment before he regained his composure. "Doctor Lecter, don't you think that this is a bit sudden? What happens if she hurts herself and you don't have the supplies to help her? Or if you're sleeping when she panics? Have you even thought this through?"

That made the doctor angry. Of _course_ he had thought it through. He felt a shiver travel up his spine as his temper flared. "I would not have anything happen to her," he said darkly. "It would be a discourtesy. I _will not_ stand it." The doctor could feel the muscles in his arms twitch from the tension. "Do you think I would have suggested this if I hadn't been prepared to take her on?"

Barney had the decency to look nervous. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to infer-"

Hannibal cut him off. "I'd hate for you to get on my… bad side. I do very much like you, after all," he said sharply.

He and Barney had known each other for a decent amount of time, and the doctor had grown to respect the man - even like him. But he had no qualms about making thinly-veiled threats against the nurse. He did not tolerate betrayal, and he _would_ not.

The other man sobered up, his hands nervously picking at one another in his lap. "Of course not, Doctor Lecter. I apologize. I'll do whatever I can to help."

The air was tense as the doctor waited to speak. Barney was still sitting in the sofa, slumped down and neck bent, staring holes into his shoes. He somehow managed to look very small in that moment. They had an understanding.

"...Thank you Barney." And the spell was broken. All was forgiven, but never forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

Night rolled around without fanfare. Clarice was still in the hospital, as they decided that she would do better being transported in the morning. For all intensive purposes, this was her last night in this room - and by extension, the doctor's as well.

Admittedly, she was nervous about tomorrow. Had she really made the right call, agreeing to go with the doctor to stay at his house? They had only known each other for just over a week - but on the other hand, she felt unusually drawn to the enigmatic man. She felt like she could trust him. At the same time however, there was a danger to him that she didn't quite understand. An underlying sharpness and severity that could swallow her whole with one wrong step. It was… exhilarating.

So here she was, lying in the hospital bed trying to get comfortable. It seemed that the doctor had had enough with the midnight calls, because he had simply opted to stay the night in her room. He was lounging in the same leather chair next to her, his head leaned back and his eyes closed. He reminded Clarice of a dozing leopard; not quite asleep, but comfortable in the moment.

As if sensing her eyes, Hannibal looked down at her. She found she couldn't break away from his gaze. It was like being sucked into a black hole.

"You're a tough one, aren't you?" Doctor Lecter suddenly said, moving forward off the back of the chair to better face Clarice. She could see his figure outlined by the silvery moonlight filtering in from the window behind him.

She stared at him for a moment, wondering what had prompted him to say that. He seemed serious enough. "Reasonably so, yes," she agreed, quiet but assured. Her eyebrows furrowed at him in question.

"Those must be some dreams then for you to wake up so often, screaming," he said evenly. Clarice could see his eyes glinting in the low light. Her dreams… the idea of them sent shivers up her spine.

"They're nothing really," Clarice deflected, turning away slightly. She could still see him watching her out of her periphery.

"Now, let's not get into the habit of lying to one another, Miss Starling," Hannibal commented offhandedly. "There's nothing for you to prove here. It's just… us." His voice trailed off into the air between them.

Us. It was just the two of them. For some reason, the thought wasn't unpleasant. Clarice turned back to face the doctor, who had not moved. She didn't have to be afraid of him, nor did she want to. She sighed lightly, not really desiring to delve into her dreams; but it was something she couldn't run from forever.

Suddenly, the long laceration up her side began to itch unpleasantly. Clarice reached down to touch it, placing her hand on top of the covers above where it would be. She had almost _died_. It was a grim trophy.

"They say you took on an entire German trench by yourself and survived," Doctor Lecter commented in the same tone someone may use to note the weather, but there was an edge to his voice. An intense interest. One that startled Clarice.

He leaned forward until his knees hit the side of her bed. The doctor folded both of his hands neatly next to the swell of the soldier's form so that he was close - close enough for her to feel his vague breaths disturb the still air. "No one will tell me how you did it. It seems no one knows how you lived… or even why you were there in the first place. Your compatriots seem willing to overlook it; but I would prefer not to."

He paused again, and the hairs on the back of Clarice's arms began to rise. He bowed forward, closer still. "Why did you go looking for trouble, Miss Starling?" His eyes were alarmingly blue, fierce and calculating like a predator's. "What were you looking for?"

The soldier hadn't realized just how hard she was breathing until he stopped speaking. Embarrassed, she tried to scoot away, further towards the other side of the bed. But the doctor's hand suddenly shot out, grasping her own in his cool and dry grip. She stopped on the spot, feeling how urgently his fingers gripped her skin, and how good they felt against her hot flesh.

She didn't pull away. Clarice cleared her throat, the deep coughs echoing through the room loudly. She felt herself jump slightly, but the calming pressure of Hannibal's palm grounded her. The soldier looked from their entwined limbs towards his waiting gaze from under her eyelashes. He was still staring at her with the same intense expression, but it seemed softer somehow. Comforting.

"The dreams I've been having lately… they're of that day. In the German trench," she said slowly, trying not to stumble over her words. Hannibal did not so much as blink, but she could have sworn she felt his grip tighten ever so slightly on her hand. "It starts right before the gunfire… And I know I'm going to die."

Hannibal is silent, so she continued.

"But it's just not important. It had to be done. It _had_ to," Clarice stressed, her tone sounding desperate even to her own ears.

"Why is that, Clarice?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words got caught in her throat. She parted her lips again, but still no sound escaped. Eventually, she managed a simple "...I can't."

Doctor Lecter leaned back slightly, his head tilting towards to ceiling. It's as if Clarice had immensely disappointed him in some way, robbing him of an unspoken promise they had made without her knowledge. Clarice felt instantly guilty, and rushed in.

"I can't say," she said desperately, holding back the strange wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. "He know doctor, he _knows_!"

That got his attention. His head snapped up, interest crackling like lightning. " _Who_ knows? Knows what?" Hannibal seemed to realize as soon as the words slipped from his lips. "...Who else knows that you're a woman?"

Clarice wanted to shrink away, to slide under the covers and hide from all of her problems. But she wouldn't. She was stronger than that. The soldier could see the concern blazing in his eyes, the engrossment. Clarice _wanted_ to tell him.

But she couldn't.

"I can't say, doctor," Clarice said sincerely. He had to understand.

"Is it blackmail?" Hannibal asked seriously. Clarice nodded her head.

"He'll tell everyone if he finds out. All my superiors would have to do was take a closer look at me, and nothing I could say from then on would be credible. I'd be treated as an outcast at best, and a federal prisoner at worst. They wouldn't trust a woman."

The _second_ that man found out that she had let his secret drop, Clarice would be found out. She knew how it would go. Clarice would tell Jack Crawford what she knew. Jack would be incredulous, and would approach the man to confirm her word. Then all the man would have to do is point her superior officer in the right direction, and he would find out. She would be dishonorably discharged from the U.S. army, and would possibly go to federal prison for impersonation or whatever they could pin on her to cover up their mistakes. Her life would be over.

Clarice could almost hear them now, in the back of her mind. The endless days staring at a concrete wall… the screaming never far from consciousness. That horrible and black noise that haunted her.

Clarice's breath shuttered as she sat there. She was alone in this. That man was loose, and would wreak destruction on those she loved most. She had failed to stop him, to kill him. Any deaths he caused was on her head.

"Look at me," came a melodic voice. A thumb brushed her cheek. It was rough, cool to the touch. Hannibal's palm slid across her jaw gently, applying the faintest of pressure to encourage Clarice to face him. His dry fingers slipped through the short hair at the back of her neck and she could feel her skin prickle where he had touched her. The soldier's breath caught in her throat, hitching as it passed over her soft palate.

Hannibal was close when she turned. She locked eyes with him, staring into his haunting depths. It was indescribable. Like being pulled into a black hole and sitting through an earthquake all at once. Her adrenaline picked up, and she knew he had noticed. The softest of smiles graced his lips, as if he enjoyed what he saw in her. She felt like a prey animal, transfixed by an apex predator in that moment. It was _exhilarating_.

"You are not alone," he said, and his words tickled her skin, brushing past like a sweet and mellow stream. "You will overcome this," Hannibal spoke, the hand that did not clasp her cheek moving down and placing itself quietly on her own; which was directly above her laceration. She let the doctor's fingers wrap around hers. "And you will overcome _him_." There was a pause. "You don't need me, but you have me - if you want. I would help you if I can."

God, he was so close now. Mere inches separated their faces. And they were alone, so very alone. Could he help? She trusted him, Clarice knew that. But did she trust him that much? The idea was uncomfortable. What would he even do with the information that she could hand him? Tell Crawford? No, he wouldn't. She knew it in her bones. But… what if he tried to take matters into his own hands?

Maybe in time she would tell him. These were her own demons, after all. Once she was better equipped to handle them, then maybe.

Clarice still felt strange, like refusing his offer was betraying him in some way. She had a feeling he didn't present his assistance often. Denying the doctor would be akin to kicking an aggressive dog that had let you pet it for the first time.

"He was the one who gave me this," finally she spoke. Clarice removed her hand on her stomach and moved it on top of his and pressed downwards; biting back the hiss of pain that tried to escape from her teeth. "The reason I was in that trench to begin with was for him. But I failed."

Doctor Lecter was quiet, his eyes searching hers for a long time. His gaze was intense, angry even. But his malice, it seemed, was not directed at her. She didn't have to guess his target.

"Who?" he growled, his grip on her neck increasing ever so slightly, but still loose enough to be considered gentle. In his eyes, there was a storm; a rage that was locked tightly behind bars, just barely visible. But there was no mistaking it. Clarice had seen that look in the eyes of some soldiers, especially ones who had just lost a comrade, or had experienced some trauma.

Clarice just shook her head. Her gaze dropped to her lap.

"What makes this man so dangerous?" he asked.

Again, she shook her head. "I can't."

There was an audible growl that resonated from the doctor. "You killed an entire battalion of German troops to get to this man. You were prepared to die."

Silence for a moment. "...Yes," Clarice admitted.

"He almost killed you."

"Yes."

"But still you won't let me help you?" Doctor Lecter asked, his voice straining. The hand slid from her cheek, but his other remained. She missed the warmth of his skin as soon as it was gone. Clarice looked up at him. It was clear to her that he was trying to keep himself in control. For a brief moment, she had looked into Hell itself. But it was gone as soon as it had come.

Hannibal looked back up to her, having gotten himself settled down. "I understand Clarice. You must excuse me… I'm not quite used to not being in control. For you, of course, I will amend this."

"Thank you… Hannibal," Clarice said, still unused to using his name rather than his title.

The change was nearly instant. Any creases on his features melted away and were replaced by a soft smile. "You are very much welcome, Clarice." He sat back in this chair, releasing her hand in the process. They folded in his lap. "You should get some rest now."

The soldier wrapped her arms around herself lightly, unsure of what to do with herself now that the doctor had let go of her. "You'll be here, right?" she asked suddenly, surprising even herself. Damn, she made herself sound like a scared little kid!

It seemed that Doctor Lecter caught on to her inner tirade. "You needn't worry, I know how strong you are. Nothing can convince me otherwise. But yes, I'll be here. In the morning, we'll take you to my home; and Barney and I will take care of you there. All you need to do is heal."

Clarice didn't want to sleep. Her mind was buzzing now, and she could feel the effects of adrenaline still flowing through her veins. She was itching to move. The soldier had been sitting in this bed for a couple weeks now. She was used to movement, constant and always motivated by the threat of death; which was pretty motivating.

The books Hannibal had bought her helped stave off her anxiety, but now she was crashing from her high. "Doctor…" she started.

"Fidgety?" Doctor Lecter inquired, one eyebrow raising.

There was no point in denying it. She was. "A bit," Clarice commented, sounding sheepish.

"It's all right, I knew you would be eventually." The doctor smiled again. "I came up with a plan for you - care to try it?"

"What is it?"

"I'd rather not spoil the surprise. You'll like it though."

There really wasn't much to debate. Clarice was curious, and she was bored. Those things combined made it impossible for her to resist. "I'll bite," she joked. "Let's do your plan."

"Of course, Miss Starling. I'll have to wheel you out of your room however, so…" he trailed off, standing up and looking down at her intently, "Do cover up."

Clarice looked down at herself, covered only in a thin cloth hospital gown; the swells of her breasts plainly visible underneath. She couldn't help the blush as she pulled the covers up to her collarbone in an attempt to preserve her modesty. "Uh, ready now doctor."

"Good," Hannibal said, circling around the back of her head and grabbing ahold of the bedboard. He began to push, only stopping to open the wooden door separating them from the rest of the hospital. They wound down the empty and dark halls in relative silence; the only sound being the rattling of the metal frame against the tile floors.

Eventually Doctor Lecter had pushed her to a large, white, double door. Without saying anything, Hannibal simply unlocked them with the ring of keys he had in his coat pocket and they entered the mystery room.

As it turned out, it was not a room at all. Rather, it was a large cement courtyard. The courtyard was lined with a number of small gardens, and in each was planted a large tree. Most were devoid of their leaves, but a few still held on to their golden and red fingers. They rattled in the light, cold breeze. It was biting; chilly and crisp. Clarice could see her breath billow out lightly into the night air; but was not cold thanks to the blanket that covered her.

"Look up, Clarice," Hannibal said, pointing towards the sky.

There were stars, just so many stars. They littered the black void like someone had spilled a jar of sand across it. She felt as if she had never seen so many in one place since she was young. It was mesmerizingly beautiful.

There were no lights in the courtyard to spoil the view, nor was there another living soul. It was just Clarice and Hannibal.

The doctor looked down from the sky to the soldier. "Do you like it?" he asked, voice as even as ever.

"...It's _amazing_ ," she breathed.

"Belvedere Hospital is far enough from town that you can get this view on any night, assuming it's clear. The nurses complain whenever they get the graveyard shift, but they don't see the bigger picture," Doctor Lecter said quietly. "They take their world for granted."

Clarice tore her eyes away from the stars above. "I never really saw the stars out in the trenches," she said hesitantly. "They were there, but I just never looked. There was always something else to watch out for." The soldier shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. "I haven't really looked since I was a kid."

"Why did you stop?" Hannibal asked.

She opened her mouth to speak, as if her muscle memory demanded it; but no sound came out. It had been so many years since then. Why was the pain still so tangible?

"I-It was…"

"The worst night of your life," Hannibal cut in.

How had he known? Was it that apparent? Or was he just that observant? She looked at him again. The expression on his face was neutral, but it seemed disingenuine. There was a curiosity behind his eyes, one that seemed unhealthy almost.

Hannibal spoke up again. "A topic for another time perhaps. I'd rather not ruin this night with a sour conversation."

Clarice sighed in relief, giving him a grateful smile. She watched as he turned his gaze to the stars above, and she did the same. They were breathtaking, and nearly impossible to ignore. But still, she wondered… Maybe her father was up there too somewhere?

They spent a long time in the courtyard, and by the time she had dozed off by the doctors side, she still hadn't found any sign of her dad way up above the clouds. But, at least she wasn't alone now.


	10. Chapter 10

The move went rather well, all things considering. Clarice ended up sleeping through most of the transfer, only coming to when she was being wheeled into Doctor Lecter's house. She hadn't managed to get a good look at the place in her half-asleep state, but she recalled being struck by just how _large_ the place was. It reminded her of one of those old money estates back in West Virginia.

It was the doctor himself who escorted her inside. Barney, who had driven the ambulance, stayed behind. It was decided that morning that Hannibal would take the first shift in watching Clarice. She wasn't complaining.

The gurney bumped over the threshold, jostling Clarice into wakefulness.

"My apologies, Miss Starling," came a smooth baritone voice from directly behind her. Clarice didn't register the pain until a moment after he had finished speaking.

"It's alright, Doctor. I've been through a lot worse than that," she attempted to chuckle. Considering how raspy her voice was from unconsciousness, it likely came across as if she was a traumatized smoker with lung cancer. The soldier craned her neck, attempting to get a better look at the man. A ghost of a smile was drawn across his lips as he met her strained gaze. He seemed amused, more than anything else.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, Clarice shifted her gaze to the house around her. It was eloquent, the walls plastered in a tan-ish color, only to be broken up by wooden support beams varnished so that they were a deep brown. Small lights hung from the ceiling, reminding her of a cross between French chateau chandeliers and industrialized instruments from back in America. But really, the decoration was just _Hannibal_.

The Doctor cut through her musings. "I have a guest room in the back of the house on the first floor. I doubt I have to say this, but please stay away from the stairs. Wouldn't want you hurting yourself again."

Her skin flushed, recalling the first night she had fallen out of bed after her nightmare. Clarice hoped he didn't think of her as a basket case.

Doctor Lecter continued pushing her in the gurney down more hallways, past a number of doors. Most of them were open, containing what looked to be sitting rooms, small closets, a bathroom, as well as a parlor. One of the doors however, was closed. Curiosity got the better of her. "What's in that room?" she asked, pointing a finger at the passing entryway.

There was a pause. "My personal library and study." Another pause. His voice was more… controlled now. "There are a number of first edition books that I keep there. They are quite fragile, and I would like that room to remain off-limits."

Clarice nodded, although feeling slightly confused. It's not as if she was going to go in and wreck the place. Nor would she be getting up onto her feet any time soon. Still, the Doctor certainly had the right to put limits on her, considering how generous he was being; allowing the soldier to stay in his home. Ignoring the obvious, she felt it was strange. He hadn't seemed like he enjoyed holding back around her. It was something she appreciated. That just seemed out of character.

Ignoring her thoughts, Clarice spoke up. "Of course, Doctor."

"Thank you."

They moved on in silence until Doctor Lecter turned down another hallway. This one was well-lit, the entire right side was comprised of tall windows overlooking the moors behind his house. It was still early morning, so the mist was not yet burned away by the sun. The dew-soaked tall grasses swayed and shone in the weak morning sunlight, giving off the impression that thousands upon thousands of gemstones grew like weeds from the earth. Clarice gasped before she could stop herself.

"Is something wrong?" The doctor asked quickly, sounding concerned.

"No," the soldier said, composing herself in embarrassment. "It's just that your house is so beautiful."

A little huff sounded from behind her. The Doctor was chuckling. "I see. Once you live here for so long, I suppose one gets used to the sights."

"How did you afford this place? It must have costed a fortune!"

There was another moment of silence, and Clarice suddenly wondering if she had insulted him in some way. But then he spoke. "What makes you think I haven't simply inherited this house?"

The soldier supposed that could have been the case. Yet, for some reason, she felt as if she was being tested. Again, Clarice craned her neck to turn around and look at the Doctor. He was staring at her, blue eyes sharp and calculating, yet curious. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he was testing the air for her hesitation. Her eyebrows furrowed as she met his gaze.

"You're not French, are you?" the soldier asked suddenly. "Hannibal isn't a French name, nor is the surname Lecter." Clarice had spent enough time in Europe to know certain things about the people. While she didn't know where his names came from, she knew they certainly weren't of this country.

"Very good," the Doctor said sincerely, his hard expression softening into one of contentment. "You're very right. I've only come by this property in the past couple years."

"My original question still stands then," Clarice said, feeling bold.

"Hmm," Hannibal hummed, his eyes gliding from her features to look out the windows as he contemplated his answer. "My medical skills are highly sought after. My salary is quite… considerable. Ah. Here is the guest room."

Her gaze shot forward. They found themselves in front of a pair of white double-doors at the end of the hallway of windows.

"This room has its own bathroom, and it is near enough to one of the flights of stairs that lead to the master bedroom. I will never be far," Hannibal said evenly. The thought made Clarice slightly jittery, yet relieved at the same time.

He moved in front of the gurney and pushed open the doorway, then pulled her inside.

The interior was light. One wall again was comprised of windows that seemed to be perched directly atop a hill, overlooking the rolling landscape beyond without being directly accessible from outside. The walls were white and octagonal-shaped. The bed was to the left of the windows, each of the four posts rising to nearly the ceiling and draped with a sheer, pale fabric. To the left of that, there was another door that Clarice assumed led to the bathroom. A small desk and a tall bookcase took up the rest of the space.

"Do you like it?" Doctor Lecter asked.

"Hannibal it's… this is so much. I'm not sure what I did to deserve all of this."

"There's nothing you need to do, Miss Starling. I'm happy enough to help. Shall I help you into bed?"

Clarice nodded, feeling marginally overwhelmed. Just a few weeks ago she was sleeping on a hard mat in a flooded trench fighting off the rats that tried to eat her drying feet. It was a constant struggle between the cold, the wet, the chemical bombs, the rodents, and the threat of invasion or shells at any given moment. It was a miracle she had managed to get any sleep at all during that time. Not that the sleep she _had_ managed to get was even remotely refreshing. Now she was staying in a veritable chateau with a man who seemed to insist that her every whim was worth entertaining.

"Miss Starling?" Doctor Lecter's voice cut through her memories once again. "I'd prefer not to carry your weight by myself, if possible."

"Sorry," the soldier apologized quickly. "I was just thinking."

The Doctor now stood to her left, holding out one hand for her to take. She reached out, and clasped his fingers with her own. His skin was warm and dry, and his grip was firm. Clarice allowed him to pull her upwards, careful not to strain the laceration on her right side. Suddenly, he reached around her back with his other arm and folded it under her left armpit, then clasped his grip around her chest. She could feel his even heartbeat against her spine as he lifted her upwards.

Without thinking, the soldier wrapped her elbow around his neck. Hannibal released her hand and grabbed her other, securing it to his bicep. Together, they managed to get Clarice off of the gurney and on to her feet for the first time in almost three weeks. Miraculously, she could feel only the tiniest bit of strain to her left side.

"Are you ready to walk?" Doctor Lecter asked, his voice quiet and smooth.

"Yes," she breathed.

Taking one step at a time, they approached the bed. It was then that Clarice realized just how hard her heart was beating. She wasn't sure if it was from being inert for so long, or if it could be because she was so close to the Doctor. The soldier wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know the answer. Either way, she was quite certain that he could feel it as easily as she could feel his steady heart rate.

They arrived at the bedside. Carefully, Doctor Lecter lowered her into a sitting position, not releasing her weight until she was laying down against the downey pillows. As her head hit the soft cushions, she let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you again, Doctor," the soldier said, turning to face him.

The man drew away, straightening his back and looking down at her. "Of course," he said evenly. She met his gaze. His eyes were dark.

Clarice swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of her still-racing heart beat. Yet she couldn't tear her eyes away. It seemed that neither could Hannibal. His face remained as impassive and unreadable as it had ever been, but his eyes… It didn't do her pulse any favors. They stayed like that for an unthinkable amount of time. The soldier couldn't tell quite how long.

Suddenly, someone cleared their throat from behind them. Clarice jumped, head shooting towards the open doorway where the sound had come from. The Doctor, on the other hand, blandly turned around as if he was about to talk to a tax collector. She briefly wondered how he managed to keep his composure _all of the time_.

Barney stood in the doorway, dressed in his usual hospital scrubs and holding a brown bag in one giant hand. He was tall enough that his head nearly reached the top of the molding to which the door was attached. The nurse held up the bag. "I brought in your things, Clarice." He paused, glancing from her to the Doctor. "I hope you don't mind, Doctor Lecter, but I need to get back to the hospital."

There was a pregnant silence as Hannibal didn't speak. The tall man seemed nervous, having invited himself inside. Had he never been here before? Clarice had assumed that Barney was the Doctor's closest friend, or so it seemed.

"Thank you," Doctor Lecter responded. Barney visibly relaxed.

"I'll just set this here then…" the man placed the package onto the desk beside him. "... And I'll get going. See you tomorrow?"

Hannibal nodded. "Yes. Have a good day. Don't hesitate to call if there's a problem."

The nurse made a noise of agreement. "Of course." He turned to the soldier. "Bye, Clarice," he said pleasantly.

"Bye Barney," she called back as he turned and left the room.

The Doctor turned to Clarice once again. "Are you hungry? Would you like something for breakfast? I can guarantee you that it will be much better than the slop we feed the patients at the hospital."

The soldier smiled and laughed quietly. "It _was_ pretty bad. Sure, Doctor. Thank you. I would appreciate that."

Hannibal gave her a faint, good-natured smile as he left her in the room. Before he disappeared however, it seemed that he remembered the bag Barney had left. Quietly, he moved it next to her at the foot of the bed. "In case you get bored without me."

Clarice huffed, raising one eyebrow at his back as he closed the door behind him. She listened to his footsteps as they padded against the tile flooring, as well as the clicking of the gurney wheels as it was dragged away to be stored somewhere in case of future need.

She reached down and grabbed the bag once she could no longer hear him. Digging through the contents, Clarice pulled out the previous book she had been reading - the biography on Joan of Arc. Turning to the page she left off, Clarice allowed herself to get lost in the sea of printed words.

It was only when the faint smell of pastries reached her nostrils that she was roused from her state of obliviousness. She wasn't sure when the last time she had smelled something so heavenly. Suddenly, she thought back to her childhood. Her father was no cook, so they would eat out at the local diner whenever they could afford it. The place made amazing pancakes, though she wasn't sure they stood up to the whatever wafted through the air now.

The soldier found it difficult to concentrate on her reading. What was the Doctor making? She had assumed that he would just make her cereal or toast or something. But was he… cooking? Clarice felt guilty. He really didn't have to go out of his way for her, but he was. She really didn't want to be any kind of expense.

A few minutes later, she heard the sound of feet on the tile floor once again as the Doctor approached the guest room. He then entered after a moment, the door swinging open without so much as a sound. There he was, Doctor Lecter, holding in one hand a platter of what looked to be… croissants? In the other hand, he held a glass of water; the perspiration dripping down into his sleeve languidly.

"Did you make those?" Clarice said obtusely, the last word clipped as she realized how ungrateful she must sound. Thankfully, the man did not seem to take it that way.

"Of course. It was no trouble, I assure you." He seemed to notice her dubious expression. "I enjoy baking and cooking. It's not very often I entertain guests, so I wanted to take the opportunity to show off."

"Or maybe, you're just willing to experiment on your captive audience," the soldier shot back.

A slow smile spread across Hannibal's lips, and he approached her; eyes focused on hers. "My, what a mouth on you. I think we'll have a lot of fun with each other. Don't you agree?"

The air was tense, but not uncomfortable, as Lecter set the platter of pastries down on Clarice's lap, just beyond the flipped-over book. She felt as if the Doctor had issued some sort of challenge. She wasn't going to back down.

"Is your goal for me to establish some kind of Stockholm syndrome?" She asked, a little smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth.

"My dear Clarice, that would only be true if it was working. However, I doubt mere croissants would be enough to get your spine to bend."

The soldier snorted softly. "Depends on how good they are."

Hannibal lifted an eyebrow as Clarice reached for one of the pastries in front of her. They were moist and flakey, the top shining in the light, indicating that the man had slathered butter on top. It was still warm against her fingertips. She brought it to her mouth and took a bite.

Unsurprisingly, it was amazing. It practically melted in her mouth, and the dough was smooth yet slightly chewy. She could taste the butter and… a hint of vanilla? She couldn't help let out a small noise as she chewed. If someone shot her now, she would die in a state of utter bliss.

"Well Clarice? Are they good enough?" The soldier looked up, confused. His expression was expectant and curious. Though, it looked as if he already knew the answer to his question.

She had forgotten what he meant for a moment. Swallowing, her brain worked to recall their previous conversation. "Ah," she started, "They're… _okay_ ," she said in an exaggerated tone.

This time, Hannibal smiled noticeably. "I see you're a hard one to please. I'll take pride in beating your expectations in the future."

Clarice looked up at him from the plate. "You seem rather sure of yourself."

Wordlessly, he handed her the glass of water before she even knew she was thirsty. She accepted it. "What good is a man who isn't?" Abruptly, he took a step back. "Now, let's go over my expectations for you."

"Expectations?" the soldier asked, surprised and slightly insulted.

Hannibal moved one hand swiftly to the side, as if he was disregarding her words. "Ground rules then. You will not get up from bed without me or Barney. Same as the hospital. This includes bathroom breaks, or showers as you heal, until I say otherwise. If you need one of us, just shout. That means anything - if your hungry, if your thirsty, even if you're restless. Got it?"

Clarice nodded solemnly.

"Either Barney or I will bring you your medication in the morning. You'll take it with water - no exceptions. You'll also need to sit up."

She was slightly confused at his specific demands, but didn't ask why. There were probably some medical reasons for what he was asking.

"Lastly, I don't want you get bored. Call for me if you do. I don't mind spending time with you. It would be better than exacerbating your wound by accident," he finished, sounding serious. "Is that okay with you, Miss Starling?"

"Yeah," she answered softly.

"Is something the matter?" The Doctor asked, his gaze shifting down to her. It felt as if he was looking inside of her head and holding it captive.

Her lips thinned out in a small frown. "No…" she trailed off. "Nothing."

One of his eyebrows lifted dubiously. "That was a lie, Clarice. Even an idiot could see that." He moved backwards a little, straightening up. "If you want to lie to me, you're going to have to kick up a bit more dust." Hannibal leaned towards her now, like a snake charming its prey. "What's wrong?"

Clarice's frown grew, and she fidgeted under his attention. "I guess… I know I keep saying it, but thank you. I don't know how I could ever repay your hospitality."

Doctor Lecter's features softened slightly. "Perhaps you could simply… indulge me. I've said before, I would like to know more about you. That remains true - more so even now. You are quite interesting."

The soldier was perplexed. It was true, he had said so before. She just wasn't sure what exactly about her enchanted him so singularly. Sure, initially the fact that she was secretly a woman in the army; but beyond that? It's not as if she was unhappy with herself. Clarice recognized that she was a strong character, but was that enough to justify such lavish treatment? Of that, she wasn't so sure.

As if reading her mind, the Doctor moved down so that he was eye-level with her, and quite close. He took one of her hands in his own firmly. They looked at each other as if their eyes were opposing magnets. "Miss Starling, I _want_ to help you - to know you. There is nothing you owe me save for your presence."

Mutely, the soldier nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from his. After a moment, Hannibal stepped away and got to his feet, still looking at her. He seemed so confident in that moment.

"You'll be better in no time, Clarice," he said affirmatively.


	11. Chapter 11

The days went by slowly. Each one was just the same as the last. Clarice was still being bedridden and tended to sleep most of the time, and the Doctor and Barney took shifts, making sure she did not hurt herself once more. The nights were peaceful, and time slipped by without much incident. The haunted look in the soldier's eye seemed to recede, but it never fully vanished; as if it were merely hibernating. Hannibal would take each blessing he could get, even if his home didn't have the total healing effect he had vainly hoped for.

However, as Clarice healed, she began to grow more and more restless. Her energy was returning, and Doctor Lecter was concerned that if it didn't let up, she would hurt herself on accident. It had happened to patients of his before.

While he objectively knew that Barney was fully capable of taking care of the soldier in his absence, the idea of him being away put him more on edge than he'd care to admit. Hannibal found his thoughts drifting towards her while he was at work. It hadn't hampered his performance as a doctor yet, but as it became a more and more frequent occurrence; it was only a matter of time until it did. He needed to nip this issue before it blossomed.

On the other hand, Clarice's superior; Jack Crawford, was pestering him more and more with each passing day. The man was insufferable. He constantly was demanding to see Clarice, or 'Jack' as he knew her. Hannibal was no stranger to making up lies, but he admitted he was beginning to run his excuse well dry. Eventually, he had been forced to tell Crawford that she was currently staying at his home. The man received the news about as well as one would expect.

"What do you _mean_ you've 'moved him to your private residence'?" The man practically hissed, his voice just barely teetering on the edge of composed and aggressive.

The Doctor resisted a sigh that threatened to overtake him. Now was not the time to antagonize Crawford any further. "His condition was severe and he needed twenty-four hour surveillance in order to prevent him from further hurting himself."

Crawford was predictably not mollified. "And that couldn't be done at the hospital? You understand that this is highly unusual. You should have contacted me before making such an important decision."

The man's words crawled under Hannibal's skin like earwigs; nibbling and pinching his exposed flesh. Doctor Lecter barely managed to suppress the rage that threatened to swamp his vision. But Hannibal was nothing if not controlled. He spoke; his voice still even as if he simply had no opinion on the subject. "I do not work for you, Mr. Crawford. As a medical professional, I make decisions based on what I know will benefit my patients the most. Jack Agnus needed a stable environment with constant supervision. I was willing to provide this to him, and my head nurse is in agreement. Between the two of us, we have him well on his way to recovery." Doctor Lecter observed the other man with a keen eye as he absorbed his words. Crawford's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly; something a lesser man would not have noticed. But he was no lesser man.

"Your head nurse is also supervising him?" he asked, his voice slightly less accusatory.

Hannibal nodded dispassionately.

There was a silence between the two men as Jack Crawford thought over this new revelation. Doctor Lecter knew that, if he wanted to, Crawford could challenge him further on this; drawing far too much attention to Clarice in the struggle. Ultimately, Hannibal knew that he would lose this battle if it came down to it. This annoyed him immensely.

"...It isn't _proper_ ," Crawford eventually said, discomfort evident in his tone.

The Doctor knew he was right. He said nothing in response.

"I'd like to see him. Soon," the other man said evenly, his voice brokering no argument. "I think it's been long enough." They stood in Doctor Lecter's office, Crawford's arms folded against his chest in mild agitation. The man's eyes were sharp as he regarded the Doctor. Doctor Lecter recognized an intimidation tactic when he saw one. Anger flooded through his veins again, but once more he tempted it down. As much as he wanted to just kill the man and be done with it, he knew this would only grow into a more infectious sore the longer it dragged on. Best to fold now and pick up this trail of thought at a later date.

"Yes, I believe we can arrange a meeting," Hannibal hazarded, rummaging through a drawer and pulling out an immaculate calendar planner. "You wouldn't be adverse to dinner, would you?" he inquired, lifting one eyebrow and looking up to see Jack Crawford's reaction. He resisted a small smile when he saw no resistance in the other man's eyes. Oh yes, he wouldn't kill him… yet. But he was planning on having quite a bit of fun with him in the meantime. "Company and fine dining make for an _exquisite_ combination," he drawled.

Crawford took no notice of his choice in phrase. "I… suppose that would be fine."

A shiver of pleasure swelled up Hannibal's spine at the sheer opportunity Jack Crawford had just gifted him. He watched the other man like an animal, marking every movement - every twitch - and delegating them to his immaculate memory. "Would Friday suit you? Say, eight o'clock?" His voice still betrayed nothing, his dark thoughts were his own.

Jack Crawford nodded in agreement, and Lecter penned down his deplorable name on to the 'Friday' block within his planner. After a moment, the Doctor straightened back up and met the other man's eyes. Hannibal smiled.

He felt quite content for the rest of the work day. Excited, even.

Clarice was only moderately on board with the idea of a dinner party with her superior when the Doctor mentioned it to her later that day.

"Here?" she strained, fidgeting in the bed; her fingers unconsciously ghosting over the laceration on her right side. The Doctor stood in the doorway, watching her as she sat immobile in the soft glow of the lamp next to her. "I don't know if that's a good idea, Doctor. I'm still… he might…"

Doctor Lecter took a step into the room and began to approach her. Her eyes followed him as he made his way across the floor. "He won't find out your secret," Hannibal said, conviction dripping from his words.

"You can't know that for sure, Doctor."

Something in her tone made the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I told you, Miss Starling. I will protect you. That includes protecting you from Jack Crawford." It was strange, the sensation of being questioned. He didn't like it.

Maybe Clarice saw his expression change, because her demeanor suddenly slumped. "I know," she said quietly, looking down at her hands, folded across her stomach. After a moment, she raised her head slowly, eyes meeting his. The soldier was intense, determined… fearful. "He _can't_ know. _He can't_."

For a moment, Doctor Lecter was stunned. He hadn't seen her look so… vulnerable before; even in the throes of her nightmares. It went beyond her personal safety - of that he was sure. Did this have something to do with the one who was blackmailing her? What was bothering her so much that she couldn't even tell _him_? ... Not that he was her closest friend, but they were allies if nothing else. He felt confident enough in that.

"Clarice," he said softly, carefully sitting down at the edge of the bed. He caught her eyes and held them in an unblinking stare. He wanted her to trust him. He _needed_ her to trust him. They stared at one another for a long moment. Now was not the time for speaking. She needed to come to him. Hannibal wouldn't be able to draw her out with pretty words and weightless promises.

She met his eyes with a determination that impressed him. Such a strong woman.

"I… I know something," she said so quietly he almost didn't hear her. Still, he didn't respond. She needed no prompting.

"I saw something I shouldn't have. People are in danger. A lot of people."

Hannibal moved towards her in a fluid motion. She was close now. He could hear her heartbeat, pumping furiously against her ribcage. His nostrils flared slightly, and he could smell how shaken she was. A heavy pungence that weighed down upon his shoulders like the atmosphere just before it rains. He watched as her fingers moved up and down the stitching in her skin absently. Mindlessly.

"He saw me, followed me… And…" she took a steep breath, the exhale breaking off and tumbling into oblivion. "He watched me undress."

Doctor Lecter was a composed monster. He had superimposed a muzzle over his inner demons to much success, letting them out only when he deemed appropriate. But in that moment, his control nearly snapped. The Doctor saw red, and he felt something in his ear pop. His fingers curled around the bed covers, his knuckles turning white against the light fabric. Though his expression was still neutral, it was as if a hurricane was rampaging through his mind. However, he could hear that Clarice was continuing. Forcefully, he brought his mind back into a state of semi-focus.

"That was when I knew I had to do something. I had to stop him," she was starting to rattle on faster now. He didn't stop her. "I followed him to the German trenches. I thought that the Germans would see me at any moment while I was crossing through no-man's land. I was afraid I would die before I stopped him." She took a breath again, her eyes a thousand miles away. She was still looking at him, but she didn't see him anymore. "I had no idea where he was when I finally made it across, and I had only the barest scraps of a plan at that point."

Hannibal watched her struggle with the memory, still trying to hold back the fury that threatened to overwhelm him. In a way, he was glad she was distracted. She wouldn't notice how out of control he was.

"The longer I stayed there, the more likely it was that they would find me. I didn't know where he had gone. I only hoped that he was with the German soldiers." She hesitated now, her voice nearly trailing off into the night air. "I knew I was going to die. I had accepted that."

"So I started shooting, in the hopes that _he_ would be one of them."

She shook her head absently.

"He wasn't," Doctor Lecter responded, his voice unnaturally tense.

Her head snapped up. "He snuck up on me. I didn't see him until his knife was in my stomach." Hannibal was quiet, and she kept talking. "They thought I was dead. _I_ thought I was dead. I laid there in my own blood forever, until someone found me."

The Doctor pictured what she must have saw. The grey sky, the cold wind, the ground rolling with every explosion… dirt spraying across her immovable and numb body. The mud would have sapped away her heat within minutes. Maybe she could hear the shouts of soldiers and the rattling of gatling guns in symphony with the moans of dying men; hers among them. He imagined the sharp metallic smell of her blood, coating her jacket and clothes; making her all the more susceptible to the chill. The darkness at the edges of her vision… Clarice's primal brain screaming at her to _just live for a few minutes longer._

He was amazing she had survived.

Suddenly, the Doctor realized just how shallowly she was breathing. It was quick - in and out and in and out like the pattering of rain on a tin roof. Her eyes were unfocused, and her chest heaved as she struggled to get the oxygen her body needed. A panic attack.

Immediately, he pushed aside his previous rage and regained his composure. He clasped her cheeks with both hands, forcing her to look at him directly. Her eyes flashed back and forth for a moment until she noticed his intense gaze. Their faces were only a foot apart. He liked how she looked this close.

 _Now was not the time._

"Miss Starling," he said gently but strenuously. She made a noise - a ghost of a whimper - and Doctor Lecter's control nearly snapped again. "Breathe with me."

He felt her head jerk up and down in agreeance. He nodded back, letting a gentle smile climb up the sides of his mouth. "In," he inhaled, watching her do the same; or try to. "Out," he exhaled, noting that Clarice succeeded. He began again. "In." Inhale. "Out." Exhale.

They stayed like that for a long time, Hannibal guiding the soldier in this soothing exercise. He felt his own fury dissolve with her fear; like a wisp of cloud finally channeled from the forefront of the moon. The Doctor watched as Clarice's eyes drooped with exhaustion; the emotional toll of her memory finally pulling her down into the pillows. She looked so… brittle. It was then he decided that they would continue this conversation at a later date.

Doctor Lecter wondered if he should leave her to sleep, but something made him want to stay. It didn't feel right abandoning her in this state. He made to get up from the bed to find a chair like he had at the hospital, but suddenly fingers shot out and curled around his wrist; stopping him in his tracks.

The Doctor turned his head towards her. Clarice looked confused, as if she didn't quite understand why she had just done that. However, Hannibal knew.

"I'll stay," he said. The soldier's features relaxed, and her fingers slid from his skin, leaving where she had touched cold.

Hannibal reached out and grabbed her hand back, holding it in his own. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he heard her gasp as his fingers enveloped hers.

"Just lay down, Miss Starling. Get some rest. We'll talk about this later."

"I'm not usually like this," she said quietly. He resisted a small chuckle. He knew that. Of course he knew that.

"I didn't think you were, Clarice," he answered evenly. As if to accentuate his point, he squeezed her hand. She didn't pull away.

Clarice didn't answer. She just blearily closed her eyes, her breath eventually becoming more regular as she dipped her toes into unconsciousness. Hannibal couldn't tear his eyes away from her form. It was like watching the finest art in real time; better than the works of Michelangelo or Leonardo Da Vinci or any other artist worth their lead _combined_.

He waited until she was sound asleep before he left her room. He had preparations to make.

It was only Wednesday at that point, the dinner party being scheduled for that Friday. While Hannibal knew that there was nothing in his house to incriminate him of his extracurricular activities save for the leftovers in the ice box, he wanted to check anyways. He had no intention of letting Jack Crawford roam his home unattended, but he never went into anything without being prepared for any eventuality, no matter how unlikely. It was how he had made it this far, after all.

Doctor Lecter found himself wandering into the library. Switching on the light, Hannibal looked around at the sight that greeted him. There were now several drawings of Clarice displayed throughout the room - each displaying her in a different position, style, and medium. The Doctor's attention to detail was immaculate. If he didn't have the living woman in his guest room at that moment, he might have been tempted to stay in there and simply bask. But he didn't. One after the other, Doctor Lecter grabbed the pieces and stacked them neatly into a pile before storing them in the closet, locking it behind him. He wasn't about to let Clarice's superior stumble upon his private collection.

The room felt bare without the soldier's form in every corner. How he longed not to have to play this ridiculous game with Crawford. To not have to please the man's every whim in order to protect Clarice's secret. But he had to - so he would.

Hannibal exhaled and left the room, wandering in and out of all the rooms in order to make sure everything was as it should be. And it was - for the most part.

It was dark outside on the moors. The wind made the grass sway with every gust, like fingers rising up from the ground to worship one god or another. He glanced out into the rolling scenery in passing, but something caught his eye.

Some of the foliage near the crest of the hill seemed to be crushed, matted down as if something heavy had stepped upon it. He froze mid-step and approached the glass of the window for a better look. Barely, he could make out the flattened grasses in the distance. It could have been made by an animal, but upon closer inspection it appeared as if bipedal footprints led up and away from the spot. Footprints that agreed with the stride and shape of a human's.

Someone had been hiding in his bushes.

His jaw clenched as this violation swept over him. Who was on his property? Why were they there in the first place? ...What had they been doing?

He squinted outside again. The grass was already springing back towards the sky. Whoever had invaded his privacy had been gone for a stretch of time. He wouldn't have any luck if he had tried to track them down. Even if he could, there was still Clarice to worry about.

 _Clarice…_ His stomach suddenly dropped cold. Her room would have been in full view of the intruder. Doctor Lecter was not one to coin coincidences, but assuming this was not some _peeping Tom_ , he had a heavy suspicion that perhaps the soldier's unknown adversary and the stalker might be the same person. This revelation floored him.

Quickly, the Doctor made his way back to where he knew her to be sleeping. She was still there, arms splayed out around her head and torso exposed to the cool night air; only covered by the thin cotton fabric of her sleepwear. She breathed deeply and evenly, and looked utterly at peace. His chest tightened at the sight of her. Angrily, he approached her and stopped at her side. The Doctor stood there for a long moment, simply letting his temper wash over him; flooding his bloodstream like acid. His eyes glittered darkly in the low light.

Nothing would happen to her. She had already been through much… And she would suffer no more. Not if he could help it.

He reached out and gently touched the soft skin of her neck. He shivered at the living silk that ran under his fingertips. He stilled as he reached her pulse, the vein that brought blood to her brain and kept her alive. Hannibal simply felt it thrum against his sensitive fingers, watching her through half-lidded eyes.

 _Nothing_ will happen to her. Nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

Clarice stood in the cool breeze, looking out towards the scenery that surrounded her. It was still dark, and the sky was full of stars. The air was sharp with frost, and it made her nose run. There was no moon, so she took care not to trip over anything underfoot. She _couldn't_ be found.

Momentarily she stopped. Why was she here? Where was she? A small rise of anxiety swelled up between her toes like she had stepped into a stream. This place looked familiar. Dark pine trees rose like giants at her periphery. The stars were blocked by the black backdrop of mountains; steep and distant. It was cold, and she gripped the fabric of her cotton shirt. The wind rushed by, making its way up the loose hem of her slacks and making her shiver. What was she doing out here?

She took a step forward, and then another; as if drawn by some force outside of her senses. There was a light through the trees; orange and dim but inviting nevertheless.

Clarice stopped, frozen. The soldier _knew_ this place, somehow. Before she could turn and run, a sound rose over the earth; a long and high-pitched moan that rattled and cut through the air like a knife. It sounded like a child. It was soon joined by another, this one equally as forlorn and desperate as the last had been. It made her weak in the knees and her hands shook and sweat even despite the chill. She knew that sound.

Soon they were cut off abruptly. Clarice felt it in her stomach. She was going to be sick. Another voice filled the void. It sounded like it was afraid of the silence, or perhaps what came with it.

The soldier forced herself forward. She had to see what was making these noises. It was a dread curiosity, morbid but entirely unavoidable.

A barn came into view, the door just barely cracked open; the orange light spilling out in a long, geometric spire that reached across the ground until it lost itself in the forest boughs. Even from here she could see the thick chain that wrapped itself around the interior handles, though she could tell it wasn't locked. Both ends hung loosely, suspended in the frosty air.

The moan became louder as she approached, as if it sensed her arrival and was clawing the air for help. Clarice could make out movement within the four red walls. One large shadow stepped through a sea of dark clouds, reaching down and handling something just out of view.

God, she could barely take it! Her teeth hurt listening to whatever it was that was coming from this building. Her muscles ached as if she had been running for hours, and there was a piercing sensation at the base of her skull; the sign of a migraine just beginning its rounds. Her eyes were wide as she treaded lightly towards the crack in the door. She just had to know… but something inside of her begged her not to look inside; just to walk away and go back to bed.

Her father would have been brave enough to look, so damn the world if she wasn't.

The shrieks stopped as she closed the distance to the barn. It looked so tall now that she was close. She barely reached the handles of the door. The air was thick with anticipation. She reached a small, trembling hand and pressed it against the rough wood, leaning forward and finally peering around the corner.

It was as if that was the trigger. The screams erupted, so loud and ear splitting that Clarice fell to the ground, clutching at the sides of her head and screaming along with them. It was Hell on Earth. The noise was intolerable. The _screaming_ was intolerable.

Someone was calling her name. She looked desperately around the dark landscape. Nothing was there, save for the beam of harsh industrial light spilling from the mouth of the barn. She heard her name again, over the shrieking in her ears. It was _impossible_.

Suddenly Clarice threw open the barn door, the chain unwinding and falling onto the ground. "Run!" she shouted, her eyes burning from the pain.

They all just looked at her with those dumb eyes. Their mouths were still open in a siren of wails that threatened to tear Clarice down to the bone. Maybe if she could just save one… Just one lamb and she could be free from their screams. The sheep stood still as she bolted inside, the noise growing louder now that she was within the four walls. She couldn't stand it. Her short arms wrapped around one of the lambs and it moaned into her ear. Tears were openly streaming down her face now as her heart threatened to give up on her out of sheer consternation.

Clarice heard someone call her again. This time it was closer, more clear. She had to go. Now. Clutching the young animal to her chest, she began to run. Run as fast as her legs would take her. She broke through the open door and heaved herself to the dark woods. They wouldn't be able to track her in the forest.

The lamb cried into her neck and it set her teeth on edge. She could feel its cloven hooves flail against her shoulder and hit the bones under her skin. Her own panicked breath combined with the shrill wails of the animal in an uncanny symphony of dread and loss. Branches broke as she ran through the underbrush, thorns scratching at her exposed skin and twigs whipping her face as she barrelled blindly by.

"... _Clarice_!" a voice danced through the pine trees, making its way to her ear.

They were catching up! The soldier doubled her pace, adrenaline the only thing keeping her from collapsing then and there. She still held the lamb tight to her chest, but she could feel the strain in her muscles as she realized just how heavy it was. Clarice felt it begin to slip vainly from her arms. She could barely hear its blood curdling cries over her own racing heart.

 _No! I can do this!_ She would save one. Just one. Then it would all be okay.

"Clarice…!"

 _No! Just one!_

"Miss Starling!"

She bolted upright, sending a shriek of pain up her spine, but she hardly noticed. Her eyes couldn't focus on anything, it was all just a blurry mass of white. Panic threaded through her limbs as she struggled to throw the covers off of herself and run. Something grabbed her first, and forced her against the surface she was lying on. Clarice bit back a noise in her throat and instead grunted with effort in an attempt to escape the arms that pinned her down, to fight this foe with every ounce of strength she had left.

"Clarice, calm down," the man said, somehow managing to keep his grip on her flailing limbs. "You're safe. It's me, Doctor Lecter. I need you to stop struggling."

Something snapped into place in her mind, and she finally managed to focus on the face above her. "Hannibal?" Clarice asked in confusion. Her eyes darted around. She was in bed. In a bedroom. She was in the Doctor's house.

The soldier slumped abruptly backwards and into the askew pile of pillows. It was just a dream. She'd had that dream before. She was awake now. It was over.

"Let me see," the Doctor said authoritatively. He reached over her and made for the hem of her shirt. Confusion swamped her expression until a moment later she remembered the pain. It was still there, now less of a categorically stinging wound and more of a dull roar. Clarice swallowed the moan of pain that had been climbing up her throat.

She blearily watched as he lifted up the end of her shirt, exposing the long swaths of her soft skin, marred by the black and crusty stitchwork that rode up her body like a river. The Doctor pulled the fabric up and stopped just below the swell of her breasts. He was silent for a long moment, his fingers dancing along the wound, inspecting for trauma. The area around the laceration was beginning to bleed, and was slightly discolored.

Suddenly, Doctor Lecter let out a long sigh. Her head shot up, fully alert now. "What is it?" she asked, concern slipping into her tone.

Hannibal pulled away from her, sliding the material of her shirt back down to preserve her modesty. He straightened his back and met her gaze. "There's no significant damage. It will all heal with time. We were lucky, hmm?"

We. We were lucky.

There was a pregnant silence as neither of them acknowledged the elephant in the room. Her dream. Clarice had no doubt he was wondering what exactly had gotten her so worked up. This was different than her dreams of the German trenches. She had never fought him upon waking, and the soldier knew that he recognized the distinction.

He broke the silence. "My, Clarice; and here I thought we had moved passed this. You were doing so well. Two weeks without a problem," he clicked his tongue as if disappointed. The soldier looked up at him, bewildered. His arms were crossed loosely as he stared down at her. She had expected to see annoyance, perhaps; but that was not the case. Hannibal stared intently at her, into her eyes and presumably even beyond. His jaw was set in determination, but unnervingly the rest of his posture was relaxed. He was an enigma on the best of days.

"I…" she began, but trailed off; still rattled by what she had seen in her sleep. It was almost as if she could still hear them, even now. The lambs never truly left her.

Doctor Lecter took a step closer to her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and realized just how cold she was. Without really meaning to, the soldier felt herself lean towards him. Hannibal's eyes grew sharper and glittered as he noticed. "Miss Starling," the Doctor said lowly, "It would be quite something to _know_ you." He paused, watching her as she swallowed. "Tell me about what you dreamt of," he said, though his intonation turned his statement into a question. Something that Clarice knew she could refuse, if she wanted to.

"...We all have our demons, Doctor," she said quietly; finally.

She watched him as he thought over her words. They both knew that wasn't the answer he was looking for. Clarice didn't know if she could talk about it. She wouldn't know what to say. This was a difficult subject, the _most_ difficult subject.

It seemed that Hannibal noticed the distress written across her features. His voice was quiet and warm, carrying across the space between them like silk in the wind. "You are brave, Clarice. Far from common. I'd prefer not to treat you as such. When we talk, let us be frank with one another. Do we have an agreement?"

The soldier knew what he was asking. To question her candidly, without concern for insulting one another. They weren't some off-brand physician and patient. They were Doctor Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. She found herself nodding slowly. Considering all he had done for her, she felt as if she could trust the man in front of her implicitly.

"You don't strike me as a woman without motivation," he began evenly. "And the strongest instigator is trauma. Personal demons, as you put it." Clarice watched him as he easily put together the clues she had unknowingly given him. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be on his bad side. That was something she would never want to find out. His eyes were sharp and calculating as his mind worked a thousand times the speed of any normal man. "If I had to guess, this is deep-rooted, probably from your childhood," his voice cut off abruptly and he looked to her for confirmation.

"Yes…" she breathed, her brain catapulting itself back to Montana. She involuntarily shivered.

Doctor Lecter got closer. The soldier could see the individual pores that littered his skin. "My Clarice, what wakes you in the dark of night? What do you find yourself running from...?" His eyes were dark, and she couldn't look away.

There was a rock in the back of her throat. The soldier could hardly breathe. It was what caused her to go to war. To seek a release from their constant presence. To finally save what she had failed so many years ago. "The lambs…" Clarice choked, her eyes burning as desperation crawled painfully into her voice.

Hannibal reached out with one hand and let his fingers lightly brush across the soft skin at the underside of her wrist. It was so soft, so gentle. She found that her breath hitched as she first felt the calloused tip of his index finger make contact. "Clarice," he said lightly, "I am no strangers to ruin. I understand."

She didn't say anything. Maybe she couldn't.

There was a struggle in his expression. The soldier watched him battle himself until eventually, he sighed quietly. "Miss Starling," he voiced finally, "Mr. Crawford will be arriving for dinner in about two hours."

"Oh…"

Clarice looked down at herself. It was obvious that she would not be mistaken for a man in this state. Although, she might be mistaken for one by smell alone.

"Not to worry," the Doctor spoke up, sounding lighter. "If you'd like to bathe, I would only ask that you let me help you."

The soldier recalled his initial rules. She was not to go anywhere unsupervised, including the bathroom. She felt her cheeks flush at the thought. The toilet was one matter, but showering? How was that going to work? Feeling flustered, the tension brought on by her dreams seemed to melt away.

"I'll be the perfect gentleman, hmm?"

It was either to go with him, or smell like a washed up sea creature in front of Jack; the man who she had respected since she joined the American Military. On top of that, she really wanted to feel clean. The odd soapy cloth she had washed herself with simply wasn't sufficient. She glanced at him through her periphery. He seemed genuine enough.

"Alright Doctor," she agreed neutrally.

"I'll get you a wheelchair."

He swiftly turned and strode out of the room. She watched him go.

Soon he returned pushing the aforementioned wheelchair. Silently, the Doctor approached her side and slowly drew the covers back; fully exposing Clarice's wounded form, merely covered by the thin cotton clothes that left little to the imagination. The soldier felt a blush warm her neck and cheeks. One of Hannibal's eyebrows raised, a barely-visible coy smile pulling at the edge of his lips. He held out an arm to her, and she wrapped her own around it, allowing him to support most of her weight.

"Careful now," he murmured, "You're hardly in a position to handle a fall."

She gave him a half-hearted glare as he reached further around her. The soldier felt his strong arms begin to lift her upwards, the muscles straining in exertion against her skin. Clarice stood along with him, the long cut protesting dully. She grunted in pain.

Carefully, he led her out of the bed and lowered her into the wheelchair. She sighed in relief as she sat, and Doctor Lecter removed his wound-up arms from around her upper torso. The soldier missed the warmth as soon as she lost contact. "Are you alright, Miss Starling?" he asked.

"Yeah," she breathed, feeling the vague pain drift away. "Thank you."

He made a noise in reply and began to push. The hallway was lit with the light of the late afternoon sun, and Clarice could hear the whistling of the wind against the tall, glass windows to her left. The swaying grasses looked golden in the dying sun, like a field of gold straw at her fingertips. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

The soldier and the Doctor were quiet for a while as the wheelchair clattered over the tiles towards the bathroom. She understood that the restroom off of her room - the guest room - wasn't outfitted with a shower or bath of any kind, which was part of the reason she had allowed herself to slip into this state of disarray.

On the other hand, she hadn't really wanted to make Doctor Lecter go out of his way to help her, although seeing him now; the man didn't look like he minded. He looked almost eager. Clarice wasn't worried about him trying anything inappropriate. From her understanding, he truly was a gentleman. She didn't think he would take any enjoyment out of the action.

"Here we are, Miss Starling."

Hannibal stepped around her and opened the large wooden door in front of them. He then returned and pushed her inside.

Doctor Lecter shut the door behind them. The bathroom was white and seemed to gleam in the electrical lighting. Marble tiles comprised the floor as well as about half of the walls around her. It was a large room, and it easily fit two people with room enough for perhaps even a few more. A large, ornate claw-foot bathtub stood on her right, sheer curtains surrounding the top to provide privacy. She saw it already was filled with steaming water. The soldier looked at Doctor Lecter dubiously.

The Doctor smiled coyly. "I rightly assumed you would want to bathe before dinner." His tone was… playful.

Clarice's eyebrows furrowed. How could he be so thoughtful? How did he know so much about her without having been told?

"I'm going to have to help you undress," the Doctor said, cutting through her thoughts. "As your physician, you are not allowed to bend over." The soldier opened her mouth as if to retort, but he lifted one hand and stopped her. "That's an order."

Clarice knew better than to argue. Best to just get this over with, right? While she was serving in the military, she had become extremely adept at keeping her body private. After all, it would only get her into trouble. Consequently, the concept of anyone seeing her in a state of undress made her very uncomfortable indeed. She allowed herself a sigh, and then went to begin unbuttoning her shirt. Glancing upwards, she noticed that Hannibal was not looking at her.

"Let me know when you finish," he said. "I'll help with the rest."

She gave him an appreciatory look that he likely did not see, and continued her work. Her thin fingers threaded each button through the hole opposite it, and gradually revealed more and more of the expanses of her naked skin. It was pale like ivory, and had not seen the sun in a long time. She involuntarily shivered despite the warmth of the bathroom.

"Done," Clarice said; her voice lower than she had been expecting. The shirt pooled down on the floor to her left as she dropped it. The soldier wrapped her thin arms around herself modestly. The Doctor turned towards her.

To her surprise, nothing in his expression changed. The man hardly spared her top half more than a momentary glance. A small wave of relief flooded through her, yet there was something else too. It was quiet, almost unnoticeable; but there nevertheless. Disappointment.

Hannibal bent down between her legs, which were propped up on the wheelchair still. Her toes curled around the metal bottoms as she felt his warm and dry hands brush up against the remaining loose fabric that covered her. Her arms unravelled and she gripped the armrests at her sides. When he gently lifted one leg and began to pull downwards, she felt her breath deepen, both out of nervousness and something far more natural. Clarice felt her pants slip downward, and her blush deepen.

Her eyes drifted downward. The Doctor's expression was still neutral, as if he was simply paying taxes or washing dishes instead of undressing her. This man was unreal.

Soon he had fully removed her bottoms, and they joined her shirt in the puddle of clothes on the floor. Now she was only clad in her underwear. As the Doctor stood up, her arms again retreated to her chest in embarrassment. He looked at her, meeting her gaze and travelling no lower.

"You're going to have to stand up. I'll support you." His words were clipped.

The soldier nodded absently, and watched as the Doctor made his way around her to her back. She was confused for a moment until she felt his arms snake under his armpits and latch onto her shoulders. He lifted her easily, and she slid from the chair before she even realized it.

"Can you stand on your own for a moment?" Hannibal said, his voice tickling her ear. He was directly behind her, his body pressed up against hers. She could feel the hard lines of his form against her soft flesh, and the warmth that radiated from him was almost overwhelming. Clarice was convinced he would be able to feel how hard her heart was beating.

"Y-yes," the soldier stammered, cursing herself for losing control. This was nothing. She'd seen worse on the front. So why did she feel like this? Why was she _acting_ like this?

Suddenly Doctor Lecter stepped away, slowly releasing her from his grip. Immediately the cold rushed in and she missed that contact. Carefully, she gained her balance. She hadn't stood on her own in weeks, and her muscles were vocal about reminding her. Clarice felt the breeze as Doctor Lecter slid downwards, his hands going for her hips where the hem of her underwear rested. She gasped again as his rough fingertips brushed the sensitive skin that bridged her hips to her stomach.

The soldier looked down at the man crouched behind her. It was a rousing sight; his hands curled around her hips, digging inward. She noticed his eyes were partially averted towards the bath, but Clarice didn't mistake his heavy breaths that mingled with her own. That's when she felt the fabric being dragged slowly down, gliding across her skin like silk. Soon it too was curled on the floor. The soldier stepped out of it.

"Let's get you into the bath." His voice was raw, just barely contained. Hannibal got to his feet and stepped to her side, automatically wrapping his arm around her naked torso. She let him, and leaned into his body without much thought. They slowly made their way to the tub, still steaming and looking altogether inviting.

Now was the difficult part. The walls of the bath were tall, and she wasn't sure she would be able to step over them without ripping something. Concerned, Clarice looked at the Doctor.

It seemed he had recovered from the incident moments before. Doctor Lecter lifted an eyebrow at her, and his lip curled upwards at one end. "Do you trust me?" he asked. Surely that was a rhetorical question.

"Of course," Clarice breathed, her voice sounding more even than she felt. The soldier could still feel the ghosts of his fingertips travelling across soft skin, dipping down into her hips and curves of her thighs… His breath against the shell of her ear.

 _Concentrate, Clarice._

"Good," he said simply before diving down and easily lifting her legs up; arm crooked under the bend of her knee. She made a noise of surprise, expecting to feel a protest of pain; but none came. Hannibal had made sure that her torso remained motionless, a feat that impressed her. Still, it was something else to be pressed up so securely against his chest, bridal-style.

He smelled good, she noticed. Like spices and wine and aftershave. The soldier couldn't help but study his face. The stress lines around his eyes were prominent, but they seemed to make his eyes all the more immediate. Hannibal was clean-shaven and clearly took care of himself. After a moment, it seemed that the Doctor noticed her staring and caught her eyes. Instead of saying anything, he simply smiled. It made the butterflies in her stomach stir.

She let her head rest against his shoulder as he carried her to the bathtub.

"Clarice…" he drawled after what seemed like a century. Her head shot up, looking at him. "I'm going to lower you into the water."

The soldier nodded, seeing the tub under her. She felt as he allowed gravity to take her. Eventually the silky hot water crept over her skin, and Clarice let out a content sigh as finally the water overtook her. Hannibal let her gently hit the bottom, the water coming nearly up to her neck.

Doctor Lecter backed up abruptly, his arms dripping. "I need to start preparations for dinner. I'll leave you to it, Miss Starling. Call if you need anything."

He left the room immediately after that, stride brisk. Clarice felt stunned. Had she done something to upset him? It was hard to tell.

Biting her lip, she allowed herself to slip backwards against the wall of the tub and relax.


	13. Chapter 13

The Doctor was practically beside himself as he strode out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Clarice… well, she was something else entirely. He had not, in many years, been quite so tempted; but the soldier was unique. She was _extraordinary_. Her form was soft and light, her skin the smoothest thing he had ever laid a finger on. It had been a struggle of epic proportions to maintain a sense of professionalism around her, but he had done it; barely. He had not let his eyes linger upon the more delectable parts of her body, as much as his own head had screamed at him to simply take what he desired.

And he had desired her.

Which was why he had to leave. He would return later when he had gotten himself under control. Hannibal didn't want her to be alone in the bathtub for too long in case something happened and she hurt herself. On the other hand, there indeed were preparations to be made for dinner tonight. He needed to start their meal, as well as a separate meal for Clarice. He would not disrespect her by serving her his latest victim. Crawford on the other hand, _was_ on the menu. He had no love for the man.

He had plans to make a fine scarpariello for himself and the superior Crawford. It was always amusing to twist his enemies around his finger, maneuvering them into situations they'd never find themselves in without his influence. Of course, the meal would be delectable as always. He was a monster, but a _cultured_ monster nonetheless. Hannibal figured that he wouldn't waste his best wines on the man, but for himself and Clarice, perhaps an American Gewürztraminer. Aromatic and inherently sweet… he imagined that the soldier would enjoy it after presumably living off of whatever dirt spirits they had concocted in the trenches.

Hannibal sighed to himself lightly as he swept through the hallways like a ghost, heading towards the kitchen. He had set up the dining table earlier that night with his finest china and silverware - a ploy he employed to show off in front of Clarice, as well as his other, less desirable guest. This was his home, his kingdom. He was in charge here, and he wanted everyone to know; in his own way, of course.

The kitchen was lit by the afternoon light pouring in from the window. A few leaves brushed the panes of glass on their way to nowhere, disappearing into the distance. He approached the icebox where the remains of some poor comatose soldier laid. Removing the plastic container, the Doctor peeled back the lid and gazed at the contents inside.

Human flesh looked like any other animal out of context. He likened it to a young calf - quality veal, although in much greater quantities obviously. His sensitive nose picked up the vague metallic smell that wafted up with his motions; the blood that had been washed away.

Carefully, he lifted up the last of the slices - torso and biceps - and laid them onto the cutting board that was sitting to his left, as well as digging up a small amount of fowl he had squirreled away for Clarice earlier that week. Doctor Lecter removed a knife from the cutlery block, the blade making a sharp sound as he drew it from the wood. It was long, and it glinted in the dying sunlight. With precision he had mastered over many years of carving, he began to slice the flesh into long ribbony strips.

He became immersed in his work, watching with fascination as the blade flowed through the meat as if it wasn't even there. Barely any pressure was required, it as good as fell apart in his expert hands. However, soon he was finished.

Setting down the utensil, he reached under the counter and pulled out a large mixing bowl. The Doctor then located a bag of flour and poured a liberal amount into the bowl, then dropped the strips of muscle in after. A little cloud of grain dust erupted into the air and rained down like mist. Hannibal coated everything with his hands thoroughly.

Doctor Lecter washed quickly in the sink, and then prepared a skillet, coating the bottom with butter and olive oil. The meat covered in flour soon followed. It sizzled against the heated metal, the liquids below hissing in complaint. The room filled with the scent of his cuisine. Hannibal leaned backwards lazily, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He was in his element truly.

The moment was short lived however, as soon he had to remove it from the flame of the stovetop. Doctor Lecter instead shifted the skillet to a lower heat to keep it warm. The Doctor returned to his cutting board, reaching around to pick out the shallots and garlic he had purchased the day before in anticipation of this all-important dinner party. With knife in hand, Hannibal cut the ingredients and added them to his skillet along with the slips of charred meat.

Soon the butter and oil was hissing again. Steam rose from the mixture, following the invisible trails of heat meandering upwards. There was a bottle of white wine sitting next to the stovetop, the top end uncorked. Hannibal grasped the glass neck and tipped it into the skillet. The liquid screamed as it hit the heated surface of the metal pan, partially erupting into an explosion of sweet-smelling smoke. Idly, the Doctor tipped the mixture around, mixing the contents evenly. It hissed lowly like an animal as it hit the unevenly heated surfaces.

The Doctor stepped away, turning down the heat and letting everything simmer. He knew he had to go back to check on Clarice. While he seriously doubted she had managed to get herself into any sort of trouble, it would be irresponsible to leave her to herself for much longer. However, Doctor Lecter was torn. He very much did want to see her, especially in her state, once more. On the other hand, Clarice was proving difficult to keep at arms-length while maintaining a semblance of professionalism. It was bothering him. He'd never had trouble keeping his composure before. This was something that seriously irked him.

Still, he wouldn't allow his emotions to control him. Hannibal closed his eyes casually, his lids flickering. The Doctor's head rolled backwards and he took a deep breath, stilling himself. With one of his senses cut off, it was as if all of the others had been heightened. Doctor Lecter had always prided himself on being a man built of quality materials, and it was evident even now. He could smell the meal he was making. He could hear the quiet crackling of the stovetop. He could even feel the subtle shifts of the heat in the cool air…

But he could also feel the presence of Clarice. Her natural perfume lingered in the air, distilling throughout the house like water flowing beneath a slick of oil. Hannibal's eyes shot open in annoyance. Control, he needed _control_. There was no way he'd find it like this… being _taunted_ by her at every corner.

Still, there really wasn't much to be done about it apart from simply leaving. That was something he could not do. There was nothing left except to brave her being. Doctor Lecter rolled his neck, listening as his muscles protested and popped. With a small frown, the man washed his hands and began to return to the soldier. Returning to his Achilles heel.

His feet padded mutely against the tiles as he walked down the hallways, weaving through the labyrinth of his home. Hannibal felt tense as he drew nearer and nearer to the bathroom where Clarice surely still laid. He felt his consciousness tug against his mental leash, trying to reflect on how she had looked, how she had felt in his arms. Something akin to a low growl vibrated in his throat as he ripped his mind back into place. Hannibal could imagine the feel of her soft skin as he had her in his grasp, even if it only was for a brief moment. Clarice was so light, she seemed frail. He knew better, of course; but that didn't stop him from feeling a particular desire to shield her from all the world's troubles. He wondered how the soldier would feel if she knew of his inclinations. Indignation? Gratefulness? The Doctor wasn't entirely sure.

It was all too soon when Doctor Lecter found himself in front of the bathroom door, the thick oak wood the only tangible thing separating himself from Clarice. He listened closely, allowing a moment of silence to permeate the air in a false sense of calm. The sounds that came from the other side were muffled, but not subtle enough to escape Hannibal's impeccable hearing. The gentle sloshing of water against the porcelain sides of the tub, accompanied by the sweet scent of soap and something more feminine seeped out from under the door. It nearly caused the Doctor to lose his composure yet again.

Doctor Lecter let his knuckles rap against the wood, the sound resonating throughout the hallway. The light splashing paused, and he could almost hear Clarice's breath hitch in response to his presence. "Come in," her voice came a second later.

Hannibal entered the room. The sheer curtain was partially drawn, obscuring the soldier's torso and only leaving her long legs within view. They curled in the water, languidly stretching out to the extent of the length of the tub. He did his best to ignore her form, taking a casual seat on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He folded his hands in his lap and turned to face her. He could see her silhouette through the shower curtain.

"How are you doing, Clarice?"

Her shadow moved, leaning to the side so she could drape an elbow over the porcelain wall. "It's been a while since I've been so relaxed," she admitted. "Last time I had a real bath was when I was in the states." The soldier sighed slightly, quietly.

The Doctor hummed in response. "Your accent… it's from West Virginia."

"Yes, how did you…?" She sounded startled.

He considered going all-in with his explanation. He'd been to America a couple of times for various reasons. Hannibal would be able to pick up on her poorly-hidden cadence even if he was dead. Clearly she was from the rural parts of the state, and by process of elimination a small town. Most likely one borne of coal mining, as that was the only industry worth investing in in the east. City-dwellers and rubes had different vocabularies. Her father likely worked as a miner, although he couldn't be sure. That could tie in somehow with why she was in the army to begin with. Maybe her father was injured or killed in a mining accident. Maybe she couldn't care for herself without a job, and women weren't generally hired for much of anything, especially in America.

Oh how he could imagine her discomfort with the way a lady was treated, especially in coal country. Clarice was one of strong character. She wouldn't stand for ornery interactions. All of those libidinous boys, chasing after her and never taking no for an answer… The soldier somehow finding hands in places they shouldn't be, and her protestations falling on deaf ears. She could only dream of a better life, an escape that might never come. But it did.

A frown crawled onto his lips as he felt his muscles become tense. The Doctor didn't like the idea of anyone harassing her. He _very much_ did not like it.

The soldier was still waiting for an answer, he realized. "You're not the only one who has been to the United States, Miss Starling. Besides, you don't do a very good job covering it up."

Clarice huffed, although it was more out of vague amusement than it was of exasperation. "How is it that you seem to know so much about me?" she asked suddenly, her last words chopped as if she had surprised herself by asking.

Ah, now that was an interesting question. He considered his words for a moment before answering. "You… fascinate me, Miss Starling. I've said as much before. Things seem much more entertaining wherever you are involved I must admit. Besides," he paused, smiling slightly and leaning forward. His tone of voice dropped and became quiet and low. "I do like looking at you. I can't help but wondering though… do you find me as _palatable_ as I find you?" he asked, the smirk climbing up the side of his face.

There was a heavy silence now. Hannibal watched in satisfaction as he noticed her breathing pick up. He could see her silhouette facing him through the curtain, the whites of her eyes visibly wide as they stared at one another from opposite sides of the room. While Hannibal enjoyed her discomfort, he was surprised to find himself anticipating her answer. Doctor Lecter wasn't sure if he disliked his failure to remain aloof, or if it was something that angered him beyond reproach. He was uncomfortable with this silence either way.

"Doctor I…" There was a certain amount of panic in her voice, as well as an emotion broiling just barely below the surface. It was something he wasn't familiar with, like a foreign entity. "I am so thankful to you for what you've done for me, but I'm not sure… If I can…"

Hannibal leaned backwards. She was lying. Clarice wanted him, even if it was by only a slim margin. Doctor Lecter felt comfortable in this knowledge. But there was something else. There was a tight feeling in his stomach. This wasn't good enough for him. And then he realized.

He didn't just desire Clarice. He _wanted_ her.

It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Hannibal didn't want Clarice to leave when she was healed. She was simply too interesting to let fly away in the wind, like a bird leaving for the winter; never to be seen again. She was too clever, too strong, too determined. The soldier was comparable to what he wished every person was like. Less ignorant and more thoughtful.

Still, he knew he wouldn't be able to force her hand. This was something she'd have to come to terms with on her own. Doctor Lecter was a patient man. Surely this was something he would be able to wait for without much trouble, right? Still, something in the back of his mind was letting him know it wasn't going to be that simple.

"Of course, Miss Starling," he said evenly. "I think it's time you get dressed for our guest, don't you think?"

"Uh, yeah," Clarice said, seemingly uncertain at the sudden change in conversational topic.

"You'll have to allow me to help you out of the tub, of course," Hannibal continued in a conversational tone. He watched as she began to shift around, marginally uncomfortable yet resigned.

"Right."

He got to his feet and stretched out his arms, hands still folded together and knuckles popping as he bent his fingers backwards. The Doctor approached the woman in the water, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see. While he may have had that little revelation only moments before, he was still a gentleman.

Doctor Lecter pulled back the curtains separating him from Clarice. The water was a fair bit cloudier than it had been a little under an hour earlier, which obscured most of what laid below the surface. This was convenient for him and, more specifically, his self control.

Hannibal allowed his gaze to meet Clarice's. She seemed to be holding so much back. It was almost as if he could read everything going on in her head from behind her eyes. Still, Hannibal continued to keep his calm facade, merely extending one hand out to the woman below him. A moment later, the soldier clasped his hand, grasping her slick skin tightly. Careful not to let his attention stray from the more decent parts of Clarice's body, he reached down and wrapped his arm around the woman's torso. His fingers curled around her shoulder, and hers around the fabric of his shirt.

She was light as he pulled her upwards, the water raining back down into the pool below them. He felt her warmth against his side, a feeling that he decided was quite pleasant. Doctor Lecter stole a glance at her face. He was surprised to find that she had been watching him with a scrutiny that rivaled his own. Her eyes flickered away once he caught her staring.

They made their way across the tiles towards the toilet, where Hannibal carefully lowered Clarice down until she was sitting easily on the cool porcelain. Once he was sure she wouldn't hurt herself, the Doctor ducked away to retrieve a towel from within a cabinet nearby.

Clarice reached for it, but in a split second Hannibal had wrapped it tightly around her body for her. He noticed in satisfaction as the slightest blush graced her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. Her eyebrows furrowed. "What am I going to wear for this dinner tonight? Hospital scrubs?" Her face scrunched up further. "I can't do that. Jack will definitely notice something is wrong right when he first saw me."

Hannibal hummed halfheartedly. That was something he had already accounted for. "I took the liberty to put something together for you, if you don't mind. You'll look entirely normal to him."

This time, the soldier allowed herself to make eye contact with him.

"You do trust me, right Miss Starling?" the Doctor asked, his voice slightly quieter than he had anticipated.

"I do," she answered.

That was not a lie.


	14. Chapter 14

Clarice watched as Hannibal reached forward and opened the front door from her precarious spot at the dining table, her hands clasped together so tightly her skin pulled white. Her spine was stiff, something that Jack would undoubtedly mistake for respect and poise, but was actually due to stress. The soldier wasn't sure if this was going to work, if she could pull this off. No doubt she had managed to trick Jack Crawford into mistaking her gender for a few years now -perhaps the result of skill, perhaps of luck- but today she was less sure of herself.

The good Doctor had helped her wrap her torso in a thin but dense roll of bandages, suitably flattening out her figure to the degree a passerby would think of her as a man. However, because of her wound, the gauze was much more loose than she was comfortable with. Clarice then was dressed in her typical military attire - where Hannibal had gotten it from, she had no idea.

As the door swung open, cool wind rushed in to fill the void with fresh air within the house, bringing in a few fallen leaves as it came. Clarice shifted backwards, trying to get a glimpse around the Doctor's back to see the face of the man she respected so much.

And there he was. Dressed smartly in formal wear, medals and badges glistening from where they were pinned to his lapel, and just above was an embroidered American flag. He was clean shaven, his strikingly blue eyes flitting sharply around the room where he now found himself. Crawford took in every detail with a practiced ease, until eventually his eyes found hers.

"Mr. Agnus, it's good to see you're well," he said, his demeanor still cool, but she could tell he was relieved to see her alive. Crawford then turned to Doctor Lecter. "May we come in? I hope you don't mind, but I have a guest."

Clarice's eyebrows furrowed slightly. A guest? Who could Jack Crawford be travelling with? He wasn't a man that enjoyed very much company. She'd noticed that pretty quickly when she had first met him.

Hannibal turned and looked cooly at the man. "Of course," he said amiably, stepping aside and extending an arm towards Clarice. "There should be enough for everybody."

Crawford entered the foyer, wiping off the dust from his boots on the mat as he did. The Doctor didn't move from his spot, merely watched him as he passed him by. And then someone else followed.

Clarice's blood turned to ice.

The second she met those cold blue eyes, it was as if time itself had stopped. His eyes were tired as they had been the last time they met, yet still full of the calculation of a predator. His thin lips quirked upwards in a sort of half-smile, watered down so it was merely the contents at the bottom of the bowl. His gaunt featured then curled as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Thanks for having me, Doctor," Jame Gumb said, his voice sounding as if it was coming from the back of his throat. Clarice felt as if she was going to vomit.

Hannibal nodded absently, his attention suddenly being redirected at the soldier. Her fingers were getting numb from how hard she was clenching them, and she felt her neck bow as she began to hunch over. Clarice met his gaze, staring out from the corner of her eyes. Doctor Lecter's expression didn't change, but he also didn't turn away. She was glued to his features like he was at the other end of a long tunnel. For a moment, the bile in her throat brought on by the unexpected visitor vanished.

And then Crawford clasped a hand down lightly on her shoulder, the side that wasn't injured. "It's really good to see you, Jack," he said sincerely.

It really had been a while since she had last seen him. He seemed to be getting grayer each day that passed. It had only been a few years since she had first met him. He had been a recruiter that came to her town, and she had watched him speak. So assured, so strong… It was as if a cord had been tied between them. It was so soon after she had lost her father, and left the farm. Clarice was destitute. That was when she decided. She would join the military. That of course was a long story cut short.

"Yeah," she declared, "It really is."

"And how are you feeling?" Crawford asked. "These circumstances are quite unusual. It's not often I have to visit my subordinates at a private residence," he said, giving a sly and painfully neutral look to the Doctor. She felt his hand tighten ever so slightly on her shoulder. Clarice didn't flinch. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss quite yet.

"Doctor Lecter was kind enough to offer me a more comfortable place to recover given my… injury," she said faintly, once again feeling the chilling presence of one Jame Gumb. Gumb had stalked into the room, removing his worn leather coat and hanging it like a limp skin on the coat rack. He moved like a cat, his attention focused on Clarice even when it wasn't. Gumb then draped himself over the back of one of the dining chairs, his arms folded languidly as they supported his gaunt head; sunken eyes watching her.

Crawford nodded absently, turning the conversation to Hannibal. Hannibal stood silently, dressed in a smart coal-colored suit with a scarlet pocket square and tie. His greying hair was slicked back, and his hands were resting easily against his backside. He looked every bit the gentlemanly host she had already expected him to be. He stood between her and Gumb, his feet planted firmly on the wooden floor. "I see you've already set the table. Shall we?" Jack asked easily.

Clarice was already sitting, but she watched as the Doctor pulled out a chair for himself at the center of the table, directly next to Clarice. It was true that he had set the table before their 'guests' had arrived, and the food smelled divine. Unfortunately, the Doctor had informed her that she was only to have a 'salade niçoise', whatever that was. Apparently it wouldn't be good for her recovery to have this much red meat in one sitting. Something about her blood cholesterol levels.

Crawford sat directly across from her, and Gumb across from Hannibal. She watched with mild jealousy as her superior picked out a particularly healthy serving of the scarpariello, the sweet yet tangy umami smell wafting over to her side of the table, making her mouth water. While Clarice knew the Doctor was a good cook, she then realized that he was a _good cook_. It was as if all other food was made of cardboard in the face of the scent that hung heavy in the air now.

Suddenly, a huge bowl of fresh greens, boiled eggs, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, potatoes, and chicken was slid in front of her. She looked over, surprised, to see Hannibal was looking at her expectantly, with an expression of… smugness? on his face.

Clarice didn't feel jealous anymore. Quite the opposite. The soldier gave an appreciatory look at the Doctor and picked up a fork.

Crawford leaned back away from his plate comfortably, one hand grasping a glass of wine. "I should introduce my friend here, for the benefit of you, Doctor Lecter." He motioned towards the pale man next to him. "This is Jame Gordon, a fellow of Mr. Agnus. He was very adamant about coming to see how he was doing after his injury."

Gumb didn't so much as blink, he simply ducked his head in a strange expression of humility. His hand went to his nose as he wiped with the back of his hand, leaving his arm lingering there for a few moments too long. The man then looked up at Clarice from his position. His gaze was cold, emotionless. Yet a smile spread across his pale lips uncomfortably.

"Yeah, I was worried. We all were worried." He once again turned to Clarice, his head tilting to one side, smiling. And then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "You look better, though."

And then she was somewhere else.

 _She couldn't help the scream that ripped from her throat as the knife tore open her flesh and hacked downward. Her eyes whipped to her right, looking directly into those icy blue pits that seemed to be so empty and bottomless._

" _Y-you! I knew it was you!"_

And then Jack too looked at her, ripping her forcefully from the memory. Clarice felt bile rise in her throat. "Thanks. I'm… glad to see you," she choked out. The soldier didn't feel very hungry all of a sudden.

Gumb continued speaking. "I know this is hardly an appropriate time to be talking about this… but what were you doing there? In the German trenches? Nobody knows."

That son of a… Of course he'd bring it up as if it was nothing. He knew her hands were tied. If she spoke out against him, then he'd bring to light the issue of her gender. That would be so much easier to prove than accusing Gumb. Jack would strike her down where she stood. Clarice's insides churned as she watched the smile on his face, sitting there like it was etched in stone. Jame Gumb had defeated her. But she wouldn't stay down, not if she could help it.

Clarice let out a small breath, rolling her shoulder as she did. "They were going to kill us," she said evasively. Crawford looked unconvinced and all-too interested in her answer. He leaned forward slightly, towards her from across the table. She had to push on. "There was… an opening in their artillery. One of their guys must have had to take a shit," she said lowly, slipping back into the vernacular she had adopted in the trenches. "I doubted there would be enough time for me to tell anyone. So I went for it."

It was at least part of the truth. It had been a foggy night, and she was marginally confident she could make it across no-man's land. She had to take the opportunity. She had to.

She recalled how the moon was out, but it made little difference. The smoke from the guns was too thick, and the smell of death was revolting. All was quiet, at least for the moment. The air was thick and heavy and cold. Even the cool breeze couldn't lift the atmosphere that was choking the battlefield. Clarice was alone, at the very end of the trench. The mud wall was frozen under her fingertips as she stood on her toes, examining the world overhead.

Silence filled her ears as she watched for movement in the distance. It was there, like the shadows cast by ghosts, flitting into existence only to vanish a second later. It was a remarkably disturbing display. But it wasn't the Germans she was looking out for exactly.

Jame Gumb, or Jame Gordon - the pseudonym he had introduced himself as. Clarice hadn't very much liked him upon first meeting the man. He was dodgy and strange, something she had chalked up to poor socialization at first. People like Gumb were a dime a dozen in the military. But something else seemed off, something more serious perhaps. She had resolved to keep an eye on him.

Nothing happened for the first year. He'd keep to himself mostly, which again wasn't unusual in of itself. She'd begun to give up on her little self-prescribed quest. After all, there were much bigger things to worry about. Shells came down like meteors. Bullets whizzed through the air like hornets. Rats crawled through the mud, eating the dead as well as the living. That all-encompassing chill that seemed to be ingrained into her bones.

Of course, she would later know that that was the calm before the storm.

She'd been alone, heading towards a bunk, a dug-out carved into the trench wall just a few inches above the muddy water below. Clarice had picked up a habit of finding one furthest away from the rest of the soldiers, and had always hung a blanket or tarp over the mouth. It was a necessary precaution. There were a great number of reasons she didn't want anyone to see her changing.

As she crawled through the narrow passages, Clarice felt as if she was being followed. The soldier stopped, turning around and looking back the way she had come. There was nothing there, save for the distant and quiet chatting of her fellows a little ways back. Still, there was a relentless discomfort that hung in her mind like a guillotine set above a prisoner. She looked on for a few moments longer, watching the stillness of the trench that reminded her of a graveyard, which wasn't that far from the truth.

Eventually, Clarice turned and continued on her way, making sure to listen carefully to her surroundings. There was nothing to suggest that she was being followed. Taking one last look around, the soldier allowed herself to crawl into the dug-out, pulling back the tarp she had hung over the entrance and letting it fall back behind her.

She began to unwrap the fabric that clung to her body. Dried sweat acted like glue as she peeled back her jacket, her undershirt, and the beginnings of her slacks. The air was cold, but it felt good against her exposed skin. These moments to herself were a blessing. There was no one to act for, and no one to trick.

Out of the corner of her periphery Clarice saw movement. The flap of the tarp seemed to be pulled back ever so slightly. She turned, and there they were. Cold, dead blue eyes that examined her like a dissected victim. She gasped, vainly attempting to cover herself with the clothes she had already dropped to the floor. It was too late, of course.

Jame Gumb's expression crinkled in satisfaction.

The eyes vanished, and the tarp fluttered shut. The damage had been done. She'd been seen, and everything she had built up around herself was crashing down. Quickly, Clarice threw on her clothes once more, and bolted out of the dug-out not a minute later.

Gumb was nowhere to be seen. There were footprints in the mud, but they were practically indistinguishable and numerous. Vainly, the soldier picked out a track that looked promising and began to follow it away from the rest of her compatriots. Odd.

The footprints were long, and it was clear that the man was hurrying. This wasn't all that shocking. What was shocking, was that the tracks led to a ladder leading up and out into no-man's land. Carefully, she peered over the top.

In the distance, there was a crater made by a shell a few days back. It was only about fifty feet away. She swore she could see movement within the ditch. She strained her eyes to pick up detail through the fog. The crater was barely visible through the fog, and only could be seen when her eyes were only an inch above the ground. There was definitely someone there… but then she picked up more movement. Two people? There was no way Jame had left the trench, right? But his footprints led in that direction, evidence of Gumb dragging himself to avoid gunfire, without a doubt. What would he be doing there? And who was he with?

She had a choice. Follow him, risking her life as well as risking detection; or she could simply let what was lying stay there, and allow the consequences to be what they were.

Clarice was never one for lying down and simply taking it.

She took a quick look around at her surroundings - as well as taking in the scenery since she might not be alive to see it for much longer - Clarice crawled up the wooden logs grafted into the mud wall and cautiously pulled herself up and onto no-man's land. It was still foggy and dark as all Hell, so she didn't feel completely exposed as she carefully moved forward on her stomach, hands dug into the icy mud and dirt below.

It was eerily quiet. The vapor in the air seemed to absorb all the sounds of nature, save for the muted shuffling of the fabric of her clothes against the ground. The soldier soon lost sight of the trench behind her. She couldn't see anything beyond about five or ten feet. It was as if she was in a dream.

"... _is good news."_ a voice floated by, detached and ghostly.

There was a pause, or maybe she couldn't hear a response. Was that Gumb who had spoken?

" _Tell me more."_ something said eventually in a choppy form of English. It was heavily accented, and she had trouble making out the words.

"There's a girl. She suspects me _."_

" _A girl?"_

"An American soldier. She was pretending to be a man. But she knows I know."

" _You think this will be enough to keep her quiet?"_

"If it's not, I'll just tell the commander what I know. No one will listen to her after that."

Clarice was close enough to make out the vague distorted images of two men talking within the crater. One of the voices was definitely Gumb, but the other she had never heard before. They didn't seem to notice her.

" _Well, kill her if she becomes a problem,"_ the unknown voice said. She now recognized the accent. It was German. Gumb was a traitor, a spy! " _I want nothing standing in our way of taking down the Americans. If the information you gave me is true, and you do not go back on your word, the Kaiser will be very generous in his reward."_

"I won't let you down."

" _I would hope not. Come with me to report on the most recent American movements to my commander, and we will be ready to attack. It will be a bloodshed that will be spoken of for years to come."_

A haunting laugh echoed across the field, dampened by the fog so that it sounded as if it was coming from everywhere. Clarice could hardly hear it. Gumb was going to kill them all. _Now_. If she did nothing, everyone she cared about that was left in this world would be dead come morning. The soldier listened as the two bodies moved carefully out of the crater and began back towards the German side of the battlefield. She began to follow, but stopped.

If she went after them, she would die.

She would either have to kill them now and get riddled full of machine gun fire, or she'd have to kill them just as they entered the trench. If she followed the latter plan, she'd also have a chance to do some damage to the enemy before going out. Either way, Clarice wasn't going to make it to tomorrow alive. _She was going to die._

 _I am going to die._

Straightening her jaw, Clarice began to follow the two men once more.


	15. Chapter 15

Doctor Lecter knew something was wrong the second the strange man stepped across his threshold. It was as if he could feel the stiffness of Clarice's posture in the air. Her whole body tensed the second the stranger came into view - it was something he wouldn't be able to miss if he tried. She knew this man, that much was clear.

The stranger was not much to look at, all things considered. He was a plain man, someone who has been passed over their whole lives. He was awkward, seemingly unsocial; as he refused to make eye contact for more than a few moments, and he kept bringing the back of his hand up to rub his nose.

"Thanks for having me, Doctor," he said from the back of his throat.

Hannibal nodded, turning to look at the soldier behind him. She was pale, her hands clasped around one another to the point that the lack of blood was turning the skin white. Clarice looked up and met his eyes. She was terrified.

That little fact made something unpleasant bubble up in the pit of his stomach. This woman was not just some homespun backwoods moron. She was _Clarice Starling_. He already knew that few things shook her. What was it about this man that had her so on edge?

 _Hannibal moved towards her in a fluid motion. She was close now. He could hear her heartbeat, pumping furiously against her ribcage. His nostrils flared slightly, and he could smell how shaken she was. A heavy pungence that weighed down upon his shoulders like the atmosphere just before it rains. He watched as her fingers moved up and down the stitching in her skin absently. Mindlessly._

" _He saw me, followed me… And…" she took a steep breath, the exhale breaking off and tumbling into oblivion. "He watched me undress."_

He watched her undress… His mind played over the events of the past. Could this be the same man she was so afraid of? The man who she knew was capable of so much destruction?

Hannibal exhaled lightly, his features relaxing. The other man wasn't the only one capable of destruction.

The Doctor allowed his mind to momentarily entertain the possibilities. He'd met men like this stranger before - someone that didn't make friends or keep acquaintances. The type that no one would miss. He wondered briefly what he would taste like. No doubt underwhelming. But the pleasure didn't come with the palette in this case. It came with - to put it bluntly - the evisceration aspects.

Ah yes, there was some good clean fun. The blade of a knife sliding through flesh, the warmth of the blood over his fingers, the clean slices of meat organized ever so carefully in his black storage container… Doctor Lecter let a small, enigmatic smile spread across his lips but for a mere moment.

All detours eventually lead back to the main road however. Hannibal became aware that Crawford had crossed the room and approached Clarice. His stride was confident and as relaxed as one could expect him to be, given the circumstances. Jack made it no secret that he did not particularly like the Doctor, which certainly foretold of an interestingly tense dinner.

"It's really good to see you, Jack," the officer said to her, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder. It seemed that he did not notice anything amiss with his charge - namely her gender.

Hannibal watched Crawford's fingers curl around the fabric of Clarice's uniform. His eyes narrowed as the hand did not remove itself.

"And how are you feeling?" Crawford asked her. "These circumstances are quite unusual. It's not often I have to visit my subordinates at a private residence," the man said, head turning to look at Hannibal. While his features remained neutral, his eyes were sharp with accusation. The Doctor returned the look. Jack may have some bark, but Doctor Lecter was more than happy to bite.

"Doctor Lecter was kind enough to offer me a more comfortable place to recover given my… injury," Clarice responded without much in the way of emotion, though the words cut enough as they were. To the Doctor's relief, Jack released Clarice's shoulder and stood upright, taking a small step backwards and away from the soldier.

"I see you've already set the table. Shall we?" Jack asked.

Hannibal gave the man a cool look, striding over and pulling out the seat directly next to Clarice, and motioning across the table for the other two to sit. It may have been a petty thing, but he didn't particularly fancy the idea of Crawford, and especially the stranger, sitting next to Clarice. They followed his lead, Jack sitting down across from his charge, and the stranger across from himself.

And then they began to help themselves to his cooking. Hannibal had many years of experience schooling his expression into that of something neutral, but he was sorely tempted to let the cruel smirk overtake his lips. He had outdone himself; the unofficial fifth guest to their little gathering smelled absolutely delicious. If only they knew what they were actually about to eat, he doubted they would feel the need to act so polite.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Clarice's attention had been entirely captured by his masterpiece as well. His pleasure curbed somewhat. An image popped unbidden into his head. The soldier with a serving of his latest victim in front of her, a morsel speared by the fork in her hand. A single drop of blood dripping down the smooth surface of her porcelain skin towards her chin where it dripped; landing in a small pool on the floor with a resounding _boom_.

Something about the scene made his stomach curl. What would she think if she knew? Did he care?

He wanted to say no, but that seemed like a lie.

Instead of entertaining the idea any further, Doctor Lecter reached forward and pushed a bowl of salad in front of her. He had made it earlier specifically for her. Clarice's eyes widened at the sight, and she turned to give him an appreciatory look. He returned the look cooly, though he was quite glad she approved.

"I should introduce my friend here, for the benefit of you, Doctor Lecter." Jack Crawford motioned towards the pale man next to him. "This is Jame Gordon, a fellow of Mr. Agnus. He was very adamant about coming to see how he was doing after his injury."

His attention turned from the soldier to the strange guest that had invaded the event. He was thin and gaunt, and seemed embarrassed to have any attention directed at him. His head dipped towards the table, and the back of his hand once again shot up and settled itself against the side of his nose. After a moment, he looked up from beneath his bleached eyelashes and locked eyes with Clarice.

"Yeah, I was worried. We all were worried." He said, looking up. His head tilted to one side, smiling. And then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "You look better, though."

When Clarice stiffened, Hannibal stifled the growl that nearly bubbled up from his throat. He'd felt hatred before, just as well as every other man on the planet. But this… this was something palatable. A hatred he could taste, something he could feel with each twitch of his coiled muscles. The worst part of it though, was that there was nothing he could do now save for holding this red fury close to his chest to be directed later. He would control himself, if not for his own sake but for Clarice's. He doubted she would much appreciate a bloodbath so soon after her soak in his bathtub.

Ah, but there was something else. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind. He looked once again at Jame Gordon. Had he seen this man before? Doctor Lecter began to think, systematically clocking off the days since Clarice had arrived at the hospital by way of ambulance.

 _He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly didn't notice the man upon him until it was too late. Just as he was turning a corner he noticed him; or rather the incoming footsteps, light and uncomfortable in their pattern._

 _The first thing the doctor noticed was his long, blonde hair. It had long since abandoned his forehead, receding to near the top of his head where the rest was slicked back behind his ears. Deep crease marks marred his forehead, and below them; two intent blue eyes that seemed confused to have run into someone. He was thin, his hands wrapped nervously around one another, pressed to his chest. His thumb played with a ring on his finger - a ring that seemed too large to be a from a wedding._

" _O-oh! Excuse me," the man said, voice slightly slurred; seemingly a product of genetics rather than drunkenness. "I didn't think I'd run into anyone this late."_

 _There was something off-putting about this person. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and he looked like some backwater rube that had taken a wrong turn and somehow crossed Doctor Lecter's path. And yet his gaze was sharp, unsettling even._

" _Is there something I can help you with?" Hannibal asked, his tone conveying no desire to aid the man in any way._

" _Uh, I was jus' looking for someone," he said cryptically, looking towards the floor quickly._

" _Visiting hours are over."_

" _Oh, okay. Sorry. I'll come back tomorrow." The man made to dodge the doctor and head further down the hallways and deeper into the hospital. Doctor Lecter put out a hand, stopping him. The man halted just short of touching his arm, stepping back frantically as if he'd just seen a monster._

" _The exit is this way," Hannibal said, pointing in the direction he had just been heading. The man really did not look like he wanted to follow him, but after a moment complied. They both headed towards the lobby, enveloped in a tense silence._

 _Hannibal gave the man a sideways glance, watching him stride alongside him. Who was this stranger, and why was he here? Who was he looking for? Especially at such a late hour?_

 _It seems he didn't need to ask. "I was trying to find a soldier here," he said into the space in front of them. "You know of any new arrivals?" Now, he turned his head; looking directly at Hannibal, his lips parted as if they had been talking about the most surprising thing that had ever happened._

 _Doctor Lecter took a moment to respond. He considered the mysterious man. The doctor didn't trust him. He was almost comically meek, but the act didn't reach his eyes. "We get new patients almost daily," he said, dodging the question. "You're going to have to be more specific."_

 _The other man seemed to hesitate. "Uh… No, s'okay. I'll just come back another time."_

 _The lobby suddenly appeared before them, and the man quickly slunk outside, disappearing into the darkening evening. Hannibal watched him go, noting the unsettling feeling that he had left in the pit of his stomach._

Jame Gordon had come looking for Clarice at the hospital. He couldn't believe he hadn't recalled that little fact sooner. Why had he been there? What did he want with her?

Assuming that this was the same man who knew Clarice's secret, then she also knew something about him. Something that made him dangerous. And now, what? Was he seeking to silence her? To keep hidden whatever information she had dredged up about his life? Hannibal leaned back in his chair, bringing a morsel of flesh up to his lips as he contemplated this. He doubted that Gordon had simply decided to pay his comrade a visit after her injury.

Crawford suddenly cut through his train of thought. "How long until he's healed?" he asked bluntly. "I appreciate that you made us dinner, but let's not pretend this is anything but business."

His comment both annoyed and appeased Doctor Lecter. He was glad that there were no false pretenses about why they were all there, but at the same time it was clear that Crawford was not in the mood to be amiable.

"That's yet to be seen," Hannibal said offhandedly.

"Bullshit," Crawford snapped suddenly.

Instead of retorting, the Doctor simply lifted an eyebrow at him, imploring him to continue. All the while, he was intensely aware of that barely tapped-down rage in the pit of his stomach.

"The fact that he's here at all is inappropriate," he said sharply. "Mr. Agnus should be recovering at the hospital, not playing guest to your every whim," he paused, allowing the silence to solidify before he continued. "I don't know why you brought him here to begin with, but I'd much prefer it if he returned to the facility that was built to house people like him. A _hospital_."

There was an unspoken phrase that lingered in the air like heavy dust. _Or else. Bring him back, or else._

"I don't believe that is your decision to make," Hannibal said. "In fact, it is not mine to make either."

Crawford glowered at him. "Then whose would it be, then?"

The Doctor rolled his shoulders in a shallow circle. "Mr. Agnus', of course." He turned to face Clarice. "Jack?"

Her head snapped towards him, her eyes focusing in on his. "What?" she asked, disorientated.

"You need to move back to the hospital, where you _should_ be," Crawford said significantly.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "I thought we went over this already," she said, a note of annoyance in her tone. "Doctor Lecter invited me here to keep a better eye on my condition. That's something I agreed to."

Jack crossed his arms. "I don't think-"

"Do you distrust the Doctor, Jack? Did he do something to you that I don't know about?" She asked, her voice as sharp as her gaze.

"If I can," Jame chimed in lazily, "I've heard of some perverts in the military. They're real hard to control, and if they get their hands on you, there's no getting away."

Clarice turned in horror to look at the man catacorner to her. Hannibal opened his mouth to retort, but Jack beat him to it. "Perverts? What do you mean?"

"You know," Gordon said hazily, "men who like fucking men. Kinda reminds me of this. You sure that's not what's going on?" The man leaned back in his seat and wiped his nose again. "I mean, it's kind of weird. Jack's living here with Doctor Lecter all day and… all night. Who knows what they get up to."

Clarice coughed, bolting forward intending to speak, but once again Gordon cut everyone off. He turned to look at the Doctor. "It's just weird how much you want him here, that's all I'm saying. You know?"

There was a heavy silence at the table. Everyone stared at the sallow, blonde man in a mixture of alarm and suspicion, though the degree varied.

"That's not-" Clarice attempted, though the atmosphere weighed down on her lungs like a ton of bricks. "That's ridiculous. You're just… making stuff up," she concluded lamely.

Hannibal looked from the soldier to her superior. Jack was staring at his companion with a strange expression; something between nervousness and moral disgust.

"If you're right Jame…" Crawford began uncertaintly, "Then that's something we need to look into." He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing thickly. "We can't have that kind of behavior in the military."

"You can't be serious," Clarice exclaimed. "He just made all of that up on the spot, you can't possibly think otherwise."

Crawford's expression was pained. "Then you shouldn't have any issue moving back to the hospital."

Hannibal watched as her jaw set in anger.

"I'm not the only medical professional that tends to Mr. Agnus," Doctor Lecter said, his voice dangerously even. There it was again - that fury that threatened to pour through his veins and into his actions. How dare he question him? How dare he threaten them? "My head nurse, Barney, also frequents my home. It's simply a matter of comfort for Mr. Agnus to stay here rather than the hospital."

Jack looked at him, seemingly still unconvinced.

He lifted another chunk of meat to his lips, looking entirely nonplussed. "If it will make you feel any better, I can assign another nurse full-time to keep watch over Mr. Agnus." While his tone was even, his mind was running at full steam. No nurse he worked with could be fully trusted, of that he was convinced. But there was one that he was willing to hedge a bet on, considering the situation.

On the other hand, if something happened, there was always 'Plan B'. He'd also get a very nice dinner out of it.

Crawford sighed, swirling the wine around within the glass in his hand. "That would be a first step," he begrudgingly admitted. "No part of me is comfortable with Jack staying here with you, however. The only thing keeping me from forcing your hand is that the legal procedure for this kind of stuff is a hassle."

If only he knew the full extent of it.

"Do you not trust me, Jack?" Clarice spoke up quietly, after a moment.

It didn't escape Doctor Lecter's notice how intently Jame Gordon was looking at Jack.

"That's not a fair question," Crawford dodged. "I trust you as much as I trust anyone else under my jurisdiction."

Clarice sighed quietly and put down her silverware. There was a few more moments of silence before she spoke up again. "My side is starting to bother me, Doctor Lecter," she said, placing one hand over the fabric of her uniform where the laceration sat below. She looked up at him. There was no pain in her eyes, only desperation. Desperation to get away from this table, away from Crawford and Gordon. He could certainly understand that.

"I do think it's about time we get going as well," Crawford said, his usual demeanor firmly back in place. "I'll follow up with you in a few day's time."

The two men got to their feet, and began to head towards the door. Hannibal watched them dress for the cold night, reverently wishing that he could just end the nightmare of their existence right then and there. But Clarice was in the room, and he wouldn't subject her to that.

Crawford exited through the front doorway, coat billowing out against the strong chilly wind that swept inside. Gordon made to follow, but before he shut the door behind him, he turned and looked to Clarice.

"I'll see you soon," he said, and the door clicked shut.


	16. Chapter 16

The Doctor was quiet as he helped Clarice back to the guest room. She didn't quite mind - there was a lot that was on her mind. Gumb knew where she was living. In no universe was that a good thing. If he knew where she was, she wouldn't put it past him to do something about it. A frown crossed her lips. She was in danger, but so was Doctor Lecter. That was something that churned her guts like a hand reaching inside and twisting. He was in danger and it was her fault. She'd dragged him into this.

The wheelchair jostled over the landing from the hallway to the soldier's temporary bedroom. A hiss of air escaped her nostrils as a spike of pain travelled up her spine, courtesy of the wound that adorned her flesh.

"My apologies, Miss Starling," Hannibal's smooth voice sounded from close behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she felt the silky wisps of breath brush across her sensitive skin. She glanced behind her and looked at him. His eyes were intense as they stared at one another. Clarice turned back around, her cheeks heating up ever so slightly. What was he thinking? There was no way he didn't notice her behavior around Jame Gumb. He was much too observant for that.

He pushed the wheelchair to the side of the bed, coming softly to a stop. Without saying a word, he stepped around next to her and offered a hand, his fingers extended and relaxed. She took it, her's curling around his, hand small compared to his.

"Clarice," Doctor Lecter asked quietly in the silence of the room.

She looked up at him, already knowing what he was going to say.

"Jame Gordon," he began, "Is he the one you're so afraid of?"

A sallow frown pulled her lips flat. "I'm not afraid."

The Doctor hummed, a sound that told her that was beside the point. "He's the one that you know something about. You said he was dangerous. The one that… knows. About you," he added onto the end of his sentence. Suddenly, she felt his callous thumb brush against her knuckle, still clasped within his grip. An invisible hand pulled her breath back into her throat and choked.

Her heart lurched once more. The Doctor couldn't get involved in this. It was too dangerous. Gumb was not entirely stable, that much was apparent. She could take care of him herself.

Right? He'd already gotten the jump on her once. Now she was bedridden and as weak as she'd been in years. There was nothing new she brought to the table. There wasn't much at her table to begin with.

Clarice swallowed, tearing her eyes away from Doctor Lecter's face as it threatened to pull her in like the rapids just before a waterfall. She couldn't just lie to him and tell him that Gumb wasn't threatening. She couldn't insult his intelligence like that. But the truth seemed equally as unsightly. The silence filled the room, pressing down on her skin heavily as she decided her next words.

"I don't need your help," she said eventually, quietly. The soldier could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head, but she dared not turn around. She was afraid of what she might see. Her heart pounded nervously against her ribcage loud enough that she was certain Hannibal could hear it as well. It roared in her ears, threatening to drown out reality.

Hannibal's voice cut through the noise like a balm. "You don't _need_ my help," he agreed surprisingly. Clarice's expression relaxed slightly, though she felt no calmer. "You may not need me, but I want to help you, Miss Starling," he said simply. There was a cut of stillness for a moment as he thought over his next words. "That Jame Gordon," he said, and she could hear the barely-contained mirth in his tone. "He's quite the naughty boy, isn't he?" The Doctor finished enigmatically.

Clarice whipped her head around to glare at the man beside her. "This isn't the time for jokes, Doctor," she said deliberately, eyes narrowing.

"And why is that?"

"He's a dangerous man. You could tell as soon as he walked through the door though, couldn't you?" She accused, going to slide her hand out of his. She felt his fingers curl around her skin tighter, trapping it in place. Again, his thumb swept across her skin gently. Clarice's jaw tightened at the same time her heart jumped a beat, toes curling inadvertently. Just what was he playing at here? Was he trying to prove something?

"I wonder, Clarice, do you have some sort of plan? If he walked in here right now, intending to kill you, what would you do? Is there a weapon you hide on yourself at _all_ times that I don't know about?" His features crinkled in a virulent smirk as he regarded her, her hand still trapped within his; damn thumb still sending shivers down her spine with each pass across the surface of her skin.

The soldier bit back a low noise. He was right. Of course he was right; when wasn't he? She wasn't ready to admit that, however. She was nothing if not stubborn.

"Just because I'm not armed at this exact second doesn't mean I'm useless," she growled. Finally she managed to rip her hand out of his. "And just because he got me first doesn't-" her voice cut off abruptly, realizing what she had just said.

Clarice cradled her rescued hand in the other as she watched Hannibal's expression change from mirth to something much darker. His eyes blazed as he ground out a single sentence. "What do you mean 'he got you first'?" he said lowly, so tense that the soldier was afraid he'd suddenly explode into a frenzy of boiling rage.

At first, she didn't answer. There was something that hid just behind his demeanor. It was as if he was barely holding closed the gates to Hell itself. She glanced down at the floor, as if when she looked up again the moment will have passed.

The Doctor leaned down, appearing in front of her as if he was a viper and she the mouse. "Clarice," he said, voice clipped. " _What do you mean he got you first_?"

There was no getting around his question. Slowly, she met his eyes; holding them for a few moments. They were filled with anger, a flaming rage that scared her; barely held back by his own sheer willpower.

In answer, she let her gaze wander down towards the long laceration at her side, lifting up her arms slowly and letting them hover above the wound. She couldn't breathe as they sat there in silence for the longest time. He just stared at the fabric of her shirt as if he could look through it and touch the body beneath with nothing but his mind.

Hannibal reached out ever so slowly towards the injury. The tips of his fingers brushed up against the fabric of her military uniform just over top of where she knew he recalled the stitching laid. The skin underneath her shirt began to tingle with the idea of his touch, the subtle vibrations causing every hair on her body to rise unbidden. While before the soldier felt as if she couldn't draw in a single breath, it now seemed that she couldn't stop. They came in heavily, and it was the only sound in the bedroom.

"Clarice," he said, voice like gravel in her ears.

There it was again - that tingle in her spine that travelled up and down her body like lightning. She couldn't help but look at the man. Her vision was full of him. Everywhere she looked, Clarice couldn't help but see Doctor Lecter. She could smell him in every corner of her being, hear the rustling of the fabric of his clothes in her ears, and she could feel the shifts in air against her skin. He was enormous in her mind.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," Clarice said under her breath, barely audible to even her own ears. The soldier's fingers clenched around the rough fabric of her shirt, curling around the material nervously. He stared at her, his expression as serious as she had ever seen it.

Doctor Lecter didn't respond, but he continued to probe her with his gaze. His eyes were heavy, she could hardly stand them. The soldier felt as if she was betraying his trust in some way. Obstinately, she raised her head to meet his.

"He won't get me again, Doctor."

There was another long silence as Hannibal seemed to be mulling over the conversation in his mind. Eventually, he spoke, his voice quiet and loud at the same time within the walls of the room. She couldn't help but listen.

"Clarice," he said seriously, "I won't allow this any longer. He hurt you, and…" there was a pause, as the Doctor thought over his next phrase carefully, the fire behind his expression barely contained. "Make this better for both of us and just tell me what's going on. Before someone gets… hurt. Badly," he finished seriously.

She thought she knew what he meant, but something told her that she was wrong.

"I don't want you to get hurt, Doctor," Clarice said, her voice merely a whisper. "I would never forgive myself if you… He's dangerous."

The muscles in Hannibal's jaw ticked. "Don't underestimate me, Clarice." There was a beat. "Tell me truthfully. Do you honestly think I'd let him, or _anyone_ get to you? Or myself?"

"No," the soldier said before she knew her lips were even moving.

She looked at him, _really_ looked at him. Doctor Lecter certainly took care of himself. While he wasn't a bodybuilder by any stretch of the imagination, he was clearly strong. She wondered when he had the time to maintain his frame, between working at the hospital and taking care of her when he was home. There was a clever glint in his gaze, one that never seemed to vanish. The soldier knew you had to be astute to become the Head Doctor at Belvedere Hospital - any hospital, really. But Clarice suspected that he was far sharper than he let on. Her observations of him over the past few weeks supported this, but she felt it in her gut.

Hannibal Lecter could be dangerous if he wanted to be. And he was dangerous now.

"His name is Jame Gumb. When I first met him, I just thought he was poorly socialized. I was right - but that wasn't the end of it."

Doctor Lecter was still close to her, staring into her eyes unblinkingly. She couldn't look away.

"And?" he said, snapping her out of the hypnotic qualities of his gaze. The soldier felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment, yet she didn't turn. Clarice found herself continuing the story.

"I wanted to keep an eye on him. Something was just… off. He was dodgy and refused to eat with the men. Always kept outside of the group, even on those occasions when the war caught up to us. Wasn't very good at following directions, either. But he was quiet and seemed like he'd break easily, so the commanders mostly left him alone. Nothing happened for almost a year. I was beginning to think I was just crazy and that the pressure of the shells was getting into my head. Maybe that was true, but I wasn't wrong."

"I was walking to my bunk to sign off for the day. My shift was over, and I was alone walking through the trench. At first, I felt as if someone was following me. Yet, every time I looked, nothing was there."

"Well, I got to the bunk and pulled a tarp over the entrance. And I was changing, like I'd done a million times before. Got good at hiding it, right?" she laughed bitterly. "Or so I thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone staring at me through the crack between the tarp and the mud wall. I tried to cover myself, but I was too late."

"His _satisfied smirk_ …" Clarice cut off, the lump in her throat forcing the words out of her lungs as she tried to swallow them down again. Angrily, the soldier brushed the back of her hand across the skin of her cheek, droplets of salty water clinging to it and shining in the low light.

Another hand reached out, cupping her chin in his palm. He swiped his thumb under her eye, wiping away the stubborn tears that forced their way into existence. Clarice jumped in surprise, but he held fast. His hand was warm and, frankly, welcoming. She hadn't realized how cold she felt. A small sigh exited the soldier's lips, leaning into his comforting grasp.

"I followed him as soon as I was dressed," she continued, trying to maintain the balance in her voice once again. "There were fresh footprints in the mud, leading away from the men. They led to a ladder, and I knew that he had entered no-man's land."

"There was a crater in the distance, and I could barely make it out through the fog. I thought I saw movement in it. Two figures."

"If I went out there, there was a good chance I would die. If I went back to tell Jack, I doubted that he'd be there when I got back. Besides, what would a couple dozen of us do? Rush out into a hail of bullets? Crawl across the field and hope we aren't noticed? No. I either went alone or not at all. So I went."

"As I got closer to the crater, I could make out voices. One was definitely Gumb, but the other I didn't recognize. He had a strange accent. I neared, and it hit me. Gumb was meeting with a German officer."

"They were talking about me. About how Gumb knew my secret. The officer told him to kill me if I became a problem. I thought that'd be the end of their conversation, but they kept going. When I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. They were about to head back to the German trench, and Gumb was going to tell the commander of our most recent movements. Gumb was a spy, and we were all going to die that night. I had to stop them."

"I couldn't kill them out in no-man's land unless I wanted to be filled with bullet holes before I could get a decent shot in. There was only one choice - to follow them into the trench and ambush them."

Clarice swallowed thickly. The steady warmth of the Doctor's skin against hers kept her grounded. She gave him a watery smile. His expression told her that he wasn't convinced by it.

"By some miracle, I made it. But Gumb and that German officer was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to go looking. I could hear a dozen or more soldiers nearby. Maybe they were in that direction? It was my best shot, and I had to take it before someone found me."

"It was a blur. I threw myself out and just sprayed as many bullets as I could at the soldiers before they could get their weapons up. I hit the other wall just as they returned fire. A couple tried to come around the corner, but the only thing they saw was my bullet before they hit the ground. I must have killed so many people… but none of them were Gumb or the officer. I could hear him though, shouting something in German I couldn't understand. Gumb was nowhere to be seen however."

"I was so preoccupied that I didn't see him until it was too late. The knife sunk into my chest, and tore downwards. Gumb snuck up on me. I don't really remember much after that. Maybe the Germans retreated. Maybe Gumb pretended to save me in order to preserve his spy status a while longer. I don't know. But I woke up in the hospital."

There was silence in the room as neither of them spoke. She didn't know what to say. In fact, the soldier wasn't sure she could. All of the emotions, the pain, and panic came flooding back in a torrent that couldn't be stopped. Clarice felt exhausted. She felt like an empty shell, as if she had carved out her insides and found only pain; leaving nothing left.

She watched as Hannibal closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead up against hers in a surprising motion. His other hand came up to hold fast her other cheek, forcing her to look at him, which would have worked if she hadn't already been caught up by his mere presence. Everything was enveloped by him. His face filled her sight, the sound of his breathing caught in her ears, even his unique smell drew her in; like aftershave and something uniquely _Hannibal_.

"Clarice," he said quietly, his warm breath brushing against her skin. She might have fallen over if he hadn't been supporting her between both hands. "I won't allow anything, _anything_ to happen to you; do you understand me?"

She couldn't respond. All she could do was listen to her own thumping heart and his silky words.

The Doctor huffed out a breath, frustrated at her apparent inability to accept him. Which, in reality, was his own damn fault for being who he was. What about him made her so weak? He spoke again, making her heart jolt against her ribcage harder.

"You are safe with me, Clarice."

He was so sincere it almost hurt. She felt on the verge of either breaking down or throwing a fit. It was turmoil.

Clarice couldn't help herself. She closed the distance and pressed her lips against his. It seemed like the most natural outcome. Hannibal stiffened in surprise for only a moment before she felt his lips move against hers, his fingers on the sides of her head digging softly into her skin.

Her heart was in her throat as he took in something undeniably _Hannibal_. He was firm but gentle as his lips pressed into hers, and Clarice wasn't sure if she was capable of breathing any longer. The soldier's nose brushed against the length of his, sending a shiver down her spine. She reached up and grabbed his shoulders in an attempt to get that much closer to the man in front of her.

Yet, he pulled back after a long moment, though no more than a few inches. It was then that Clarice realized that she very much needed to breathe. As she took in one long, deep breath; the air was full of the scent of _him_.

She opened her eyes to look at Doctor Lecter. The Doctor looked back. They stayed like that for a long time.


	17. Chapter 17

(AN: Updates on my profile)

Nothing of note happened for a few days, of which Clarice was immensely grateful for. The dinner with Crawford had been a disaster, to say the very least. Enough had been on the line as it was, even without the involvement of Jame Gumb. But of course, he had been there, so there was nothing left to do but to deal with the consequences.

There was that looming question that hung ever low over Clarice's thoughts. What would happen next? How would she deal with Gumb? And what was he planning to do about _her_? It was an uncomfortable stalemate, one in which the soldier was not comfortable with her position. It felt like she had had her chance to stop him once and for all, and she had failed. There was nothing new that she brought forward now. In fact, she was further back than she had ever been – what with the long laceration that ran up her side, inhibiting her every movement.

Clarice laid her head backwards, resting her neck in the pile of downy pillows behind her. Every moment she spent simply laying there was another moment that Gumb had to get the upper hand, another life that he risked simply by existing. It frustrated her to no end. She felt tense, fidgety. She felt useless.

Unconsciously, her fingers rose to lightly touch the sensitive skin of her lips. It wasn't _just_ her alone in this anymore. Right?

Doctor Lecter was at the hospital still, finishing his shift for the day. He wanted to help her. He cared about her enough to help fight this lone war at her side. That was something she couldn't trust of anyone else. And she did trust him.

Hannibal was a difficult question, however. On the surface, he was the perfect gentleman; never taking more from Clarice than she was willing to give. But there was always something else; something simmering just below the calm surface he exuded. She'd seen it in those rare moments when he seemed to, just for a moment, lose control of himself.

Clarice Starling would never had made it this far if she had just looked at the exterior of things. There really was little doubt in the soldier's mind that Doctor Lecter was a dangerous man indeed.

However, that was the question. What made her so sure of that? And if she was correct, which she was certain she was, why? What made the Doctor so… predatory?

She'd seen it last night, as she told him about what Gumb had done to her. Clarice had seen what almost looked like the gates to Hell in his eyes as he so curtly asked, " _What do you mean he got you first?_ " She recalled the feeling of his fingers, nearly shivering with a barely bridled rage as he grasped her own hand in his, gentle but unspeakably firm. A command masquerading as a question, his face close enough to her own that she could feel his breath faintly against her ear…

Concentrate, Clarice.

The soldier had recognized this in him early on, even perhaps within her first meeting with Doctor Lecter so many weeks ago in the hospital. It was a skill she had homed in the trenches; an almost instinct-like perception you learned to form of a person quickly. Who was likely to kill you, and who wasn't. Which German soldier was going to send a bullet into your spine, and which had trousers full of piss.

Clarice had little doubt that Hannibal was of the former.

But what exactly did that mean, especially outside of the eastern front? Hannibal was a physician, wielding a scalpel and not a _Springfield 1903_ rifle. He _saved_ lives. He didn't take them.

While the soldier was certain that he wouldn't be slitting her throat in her sleep, she still couldn't shake the feeling that there was something much more to the enigmatic figure of Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

"Miss Starling?" came a calm and deep voice from the doorway. The soldier flinched in mild surprise, tearing herself out of her train of thought.

"Oh, hello Barney," she sighed. "I didn't hear you come in."

"My apologies. I just came in to check on you. Are you still doing okay?" the head nurse asked amiably, his dark eyes furrowed in concern as he regarded her.

Clarice shifted uncomfortably from her spot under the heavy bed covers. "As good as I'll get for the time being. Thank you, Barney," she answered with a mild and good-natured frown.

"Very good. Shall I leave you…?" the tall man asked in question, large frame looming like a friendly ghost in the doorway of the bedroom.

Before she could answer, a thought struck the soldier. "Actually, I was wondering. How did you and the Doctor meet? Have you been working together for long…?" Perhaps the nurse could give her some much-needed insight into the character of Doctor Lecter. "After all, it seems to me like you're the closest friend he has."

Barney straightened up and gave the soldier a warm smile. "I suppose you could say that, as much as I'd like to say so myself. I'm sure you've gathered that Doctor Lecter is more private than he is anything else in this world."

Clarice nodded agreeably. That was something that would be hard to miss, certainly.

She watched as the nurse took a seat at the desk chair to her left, his impossibly large build making the furniture look as if it were a child's plaything in comparison. Clarice waited patiently as the man made himself comfortable.

"Where to even begin…?" Barney questioned aloud, scratching the stubble on his chin with one index finger. "I suppose I should mention that I have been working at Belvedere Hospital for about eight years. Doctor Lecter came to work above me shortly after the old head physician quit… oh, about six years ago."

"The old head physician? I hadn't realized that Belvedere was that old." Clarice inquired.

Barney tapped his chin as he turned to look at the soldier absently. "It's not. The old hospital was torn down to build the one that stands today. Just after Doctor Dortlich left and Doctor Lecter came to us. I believe that Doctor Lecter was the one who requested the demolition. It was just in time too, we started getting overflow patients not soon after the new hospital was built."

The head nurse shook his head slightly, as if to clear his head of unwanted tangents. "I digress. The first time I met the Doctor was not more than a year before the Duke was assassinated," the man said with a grim frown. "I walked into Doctor Dortlich's office to get the nurse's duties for the day and there he was," Barney said vaguely, waving one hand in the air. "The whole room had somehow been redecorated overnight, and it was simply as if he had always been there."

Clarice nodded slowly in response. She could certainly picture the scene.

"He introduced himself in about a sentence, handed me the papers I'd come for, and simply went back to his work. It went on like that for a while."

"Huh," the soldier answered with a breath.

Barney chuckled. "That's about right. I couldn't tell you exactly when our work relationship changed. I like to think I worked myself into his good graces," the nurse smiled. "Doctor Lecter doesn't appreciate gossip or slackers, which I know some of the other nurses get up to in their spare time." Another good-natured grin crossed the man's lips. "Maybe I'd be one of them, if I didn't think that I was so often the target of their conversations. Something about a black man working in such a high position, I'd imagine."

Clarice frowned but allowed him to continue.

"I've never really seen Doctor Lecter confide in much of anyone, including myself. Never bothered me much. But would I consider us friends? I'm not sure of that. I think a mutual respect is what we have. I think you are the first person I've ever seen him remotely interested in, to be frank."

"Really?" the soldier responded, perhaps a bit quickly. The head nurse didn't seem to notice.

"I guess I should be glad you came along, despite how poor it makes me sound. While I wish it had been under different conditions, here we are all the same." The nurse paused for a moment, then gave the soldier a sheepish look. "If I do say so, I am certainly glad to have met you. You'd find yourself hard-pressed to make many friends in a hospital full of the so heavily injured." Another pause. "Not many stick around, if you understand my saying."

"I see you two have been having a good day," came a melodic voice from just beyond the doorway.

The air in the room seemed to suddenly solidify at the new presence. Clarice's gaze shot towards the source of the sound.

"Good evening, Doctor Lecter," Barney said unacknowledging the change in atmosphere and swiveling in the tiny desk chair to face the figure entering the room.

"Thank you once again for keeping an eye on Clarice," Hannibal said appreciatively. "You may head home if you wish."

The head nurse climbed to his feet, towering over the Doctor by more than a foot. He bowed his head slightly, one arm coming up as if to tip an invisible hat, but not quite making the journey to his head. "Of course." The tall man turned to face Clarice. "Goodnight, Miss Starling. I'll be seeing you soon."

"Goodnight Barney," Clarice responded in kind, her voice cracking through the air like too much pressure on a slick of ice.

She watched the head nurse exit the room, partially closing the door behind his massive frame, leaving the soldier and the Doctor alone.

"And how was _your_ day, Miss Starling?" Doctor Lecter asked in a low voice that reached to the tips of Clarice's toes.

"I was just asking Barney how you two met," she explained, feeling as if he deserved some sort of explanation to what he undoubtedly heard walking in. "You've been working together for a long time, it seems."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed with a noise. "Barney is a good man. It's been a pleasure."

Doctor Lecter crossed to the other side of the room, pulling back one curtain from the window to look beyond. He stood there for a moment without speaking.

"You realize that Jame Gumb has been stalking you," he said without much in the way of emotion, and without turning around.

"Excuse me?" Clarice demanded curtly.

"He showed up not long after you first arrived at the hospital looking for you," the Doctor continued, "and he showed up last night to dinner. Although he knew you were here long before that."

This caught the soldier off-guard. She hadn't realized just how close Gumb had been to her the whole time… How could she _not_ realize? For all she knew, Gumb had been the one to "rescue" her from the trench he himself had put her in. All he would have to do is ask Crawford where she was at any given time, and he'd have no reason not to tell him. But that wasn't truly what had caught her off-guard.

How could Hannibal say that so bluntly? Was this some sort of game to him?

Hannibal then turned around purposefully to face her, hands folded easily behind his back. "Tick tock, Clarice. You're running out of time."

A swell of frustration climbed up from the pit of the soldier's stomach. "I know that, Doctor," she said, her voice straining with indignation.

"Then what, Miss Starling? Every moment you lie here is another notch in Mr. Gumb's belt. Now's not the time to be getting lazy, don't you think?"

" _You_ think-?"

"I don't _think_ Clarice." He took a step closer to her figure beneath the covers, her fingers pulled white as she gripped the sheets in an iron grasp. "Tell me, what plan have you concocted? Do tell, I'm itching to know. How do you think Gumb will fall? Will he walk into this very room, knife in hand, and lay his neck bare for you to cut his throat? Will you read the newspaper tomorrow morning only to find his name on the front page, ' _Spy turns self in to police'?_ "

A spark of realization lit in her mind amidst the curling ire. He'd heard her speaking with Barney. About him. He was indignant. This was a power play.

Clarice reached out a hand, taking his within her own. She felt him flinch slightly at her touch, his shocking gaze meeting hers like two planets colliding. The weight of his eyes was almost too much to bear, but yet the soldier refused to break free.

"You said you'd help me," she said.

"I did," Hannibal responded equally.

She grasped his hand harder, taking her other and wrapping it around their entwined fingers. Neither of them spoke, simply watched their hands embrace as if struggling to stay afloat on a life ring amidst a vast sea.

It seemed as if that moment dragged on for an impossible length of time. The Doctor was the first to break it, his voice low. "I will not have him lay a finger on you," he said, just barely heard above the background noise around them.

He sounded so sincere, Clarice wished she could simply agree with him. The dull throbbing at her side reminded her of reality, however.

"Doctor," she said, "He's dangerous."

His eyes met hers once more. His presence was indomitable.

The background noise made by the house seemed to grow louder with each passing second. There was an ever-present buzzing of wires and electrics that bombarded her senses, prodding her eardrums like so many flies. It was loud. It was difficult to concentrate, really. It was high-pitched and wailing without end.

A shiver ran down her spine, travelling from the nape of her neck down to her toes; an uncomfortable sensation that just wouldn't go away. Clarice felt her breathing pick up ever so slightly, her heart thump with each whirl and whine in an ungodly orchestral song. And like burned electrical wire in the back of her nose she could make out the vile scent of pine trees in the night.

 _The lambs..._

"Clarice?"

The voice was far away, far enough that the soldier couldn't hear it. Oh god, the lambs… Their screams rising and falling with each drop of spring blood spilled. Had it always been this loud?

"Clarice."

She gripped the lamb tighter in her arms, the cold sweat making him slip further and further with each second spent. She needed to stop Gordon. She needed to save this _one_ lamb.

Her lungs gulped for air as she ran, panic swelled through her veins like wildfire…

And then she was looking into Hannibal's icy blue eyes. Her chest heaved as she grasped at his shirt in alarm. "I-I'm sorry," she stumbled over her words, "I just lost my focus for a second there," she breathed out in short, choppy fragments.

He was now sitting beside her on the bed. When he had accomplished that, the soldier was uncertain. His arm was locked behind her neck as he forced her to look into his eyes, their foreheads pressed together. The other hand was grasping hers, relaxed despite the fact her fingernails were dug deeply into his skin.

"Breathe with me, Clarice," he said, his tone like a cool balm. "In. Out. In. Out. That's it."

Gradually her fast-beating heart began to still, the feeling of her chest moving with his more comforting than she had expected. She felt his cool and warm breath pass across the skin of her face, and his eyes like anchors weighing down her panic.

"Clarice-" Hannibal said quietly against her mouth.

She brushed a trembling finger across his cheek, stopping the words in his throat. She watched his lips as they spoke nothing to no-one.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, so quietly she could hardly even hear herself. It was a confession that she had never wanted to make, and never wanted to be true.

Hannibal leaned in closer, brushing across her forehead softly. "What makes someone brave is the fact that they feel fear," he said quietly.

"I don't want to feel fear." Her words terrified her. For all of his sentiments, Doctor Lecter seemed utterly convinced that she was strong. Clarice felt as if she was letting him down, breaking to dust all his admirations he had laid upon her. She clasped the fabric of his white shirt tighter in her fingers, as if he would float away if she let go.

The Doctor didn't say anything at first. She simply watched as he moved in closer to her on the bed, taking his arm behind her neck and wrapping it further around her shoulders. The other he used to throw away the top blankets that had been covering Clarice, flipping them back so that they were covering the both of them. She felt his hard body pressed up against her side, only their clothes now separating them beneath the sheets.

"...Doctor?" Clarice questioned quietly, one eyebrow raising as she observed him settling down next to her. She turned partially onto her side, as far as her wound would allow, facing him against the downy pillows beneath.

"You needn't be afraid when I am with you," he answered in a sentence, allowing his thumb to reach over and caress the skin on her cheek. The soldier felt herself lean into his embrace, feeling as if she was laying in the lion's lap.

Yes, Clarice knew that Hannibal Lecter was a dangerous man. But in that moment, she couldn't find it in herself to care.

And with that realization came a wave of exhaustion. Her eyelids began to droop as she struggled to maintain focus of Doctor Lecter just next to her.

"It's alright, Miss Starling," he said quietly. "Sleep now…"


	18. Chapter 18

It was all a rather interesting turn of events. Ever since the dinner a few nights prior, he had been getting badgered by Jack Crawford all the more often at the hospital. It was grating on his self control, and he felt as if his every step was being monitored by the leech of a man. Oh, how he dreamed of putting an end to the situation, once and for all, but alas that was not within the cards. At least, not now anyways.

But that wasn't really the piece he was interested in. Clarice, it was always Clarice. Doctor Lecter was an exceptional man in many cases, but he was still a man and he still was nevertheless affected by the opposite gender like many were. He recalled those few, chaste moments like it had happened mere seconds before.

She had kissed him.

That was something that was definitely not unwelcome. He hadn't entertained the idea beforehand, as it seemed somewhat disrespectful to think of her while he lay in bed, like something a lesser man would do in their spare time. But… it _had_ crossed his mind in the past. And, like every other aspect, Clarice had surpassed his expectations twofold.

It was certainly something he hoped would happen again in the future.

On a more important matter, however, was that of her compatriot; Jame Gumb. The Doctor was no liar, he certainly planned on helping her in whatever way he could. But she had just allowed him access to what had happened that day - and with that information, he wasn't certain just what to do with it. The man was a spy. He could certainly see how he was dangerous to keep around. In any other circumstances, he might not have bothered to lift a finger. It didn't seem like any of his business. He minded his own castle and estate, while the army could manage theirs. As far as he was concerned, it was better to keep to his own territories, lest any happen to stumble upon Doctor Lecter's extracurriculars.

The sun was nearing its peak when he arrived home for the day. He felt stiff from overexertion and annoyance, as his shadow, Crawford, had once again ambushed him at his place of work. He had already made arrangements for the nurse, Ardelia Mapp, to help himself and Barney watch over Clarice while she recovered. He didn't care much for Mapp, but beggars can't be choosers. She seemed like a fairly trustworthy individual, and didn't engage in as much gossip or other unnecessary business like the others under his charge did. He even recalled a few times Barney spoke well of her. He'd just have to convince her, of course.

Ideally, she'd agree. If she found any issues with the circumstances… well, there would be a problem. A problem he would have to resolve, one way or another.

The front door opened with a mild creak that he felt in the nerves along his spine. The housekeeper he'd had employed hadn't been around since Clarice had arrived at his residence. It was a creature comfort he missed, but not enough to keep her around and possibly risk the discovery of the soldier's true identity by the American military. Hannibal disliked his house being out of order, but he would deal with it for the time being. The door shut behind him as he crossed the threshold, audibly clicking shut behind him.

The house was bright in the light of the day, the cream-colored walls mutely reflecting the glare so that the hallway was an inviting gold color. The air was warm, despite the chill from outside in the late-autumn weather. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack to his side.

"Doctor, glad to see you're home," came a deep voice from ahead of him.

"Good afternoon, Barney. I trust the day went well?" Hannibal asked without looking.

Out of his periphery, the large man approached. He finally met his gaze. "It did. Miss Starling is recovering well, despite the setbacks," the head nurse explained warmly.

"I would expect nothing less of her," the Doctor replied in an even tone.

Barney sighed, stretching his massive shoulders in a smooth circle. "I am ready to get some sleep, as much as I enjoy spending time with her. Do you need anything else from me today, doctor?"

"No," Hannibal replied, "You're welcome to go."

Barney returned his words with a smile, grabbing his hat and coat from the wall, then tipping the brim slightly as he turned to leave. "Have a good rest of your day, doctor. I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"Good night, Barney."

Again, the door squeaked as it opened and closed behind the nurse.

After he was sure the other man had left, Hannibal allowed himself deeper into the house, heading in the direction of the guest room, as he had many times before already. The sound of his feet against the tile echoed off of the arched ceilings as he walked.

Soon he found himself in front of the open door to the room Clarice laid in. He looked in, seeing her propped up against the bed frame with a book in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He stood quietly for a moment, observing her. Despite the appearance of reading, he saw that her eyes were stationary and she seemed to be simply staring blankly at whatever page the book was turned to. The glass of water rippled as she swirled the cup slowly, sloshing gently against the unstained glass mug that had clearly not been drank from before. The covers of the bed bounced every few seconds as her leg beneath kicked impatiently.

"Restless?" Hannibal asked clearly.

Clarice jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, splashing a small amount of water down the skin of her arm. Her eyes shot upwards, finding his in an instant.

She had very beautiful eyes.

"Doctor," she exclaimed in surprise, "I didn't realize you were home."

"Clearly." There was a beat of silence, and he tisked; clicking his tongue. "And here I had hoped you would remember my expectations of you."

There was another beat of silence. "Expectations?" she asked in a tone that started with surprise and ended with mild irritation. He wanted to let his lip curl up in a smile. She might not be so bold if she knew what he got up to in his spare time. However, he controlled himself.

Hannibal allowed a small sigh to escape his lips as he held her gaze tightly in his own. "Yes. Expectations. On your first day here."

It took a moment for Clarice to realize what he was talking about. "Don't get up on my own, take my medication in the morning… Why bring this up now? I've been following all of your rules, last I checked."

"You've forgotten one," he reminded her, holding this morsel of fact above her like a carrot on a stick. The Doctor watched her face as her mind churned, looking for the answer he was asking for.

And then she remembered. A frown spread across her features as she spoke. "I'm not going to injure myself by _reading_."

Hannibal stepped closer to her, stopping as he reached the bedside. "Accidents can happen at any time. And I don't want you to injure yourself as you skim the same line of text for hours on end."

Clarice's eyes burned as he called her out on her bluff. The soldier closed the book and set it beside her in irritation. "I'm sorry," she said, although no apology could be found in her words. "I just don't think I can concentrate while there's a man out there who wants to kill me while I'm practically a sitting duck. And since there's nothing I can do about it at the moment, all I can do is try to read a damn book. Do you have any better ideas, doctor?" she asked heatedly.

Anger was something Doctor Lecter knew about. He preferred it over apathy. Anger keeps the mind moving.

"I told you to call for Barney or I if you got bored," he responded in a painfully neutral tone. Clarice's knuckles gripped the fabric of the bed covers tightly.

"You're already doing-"

"So much for you?" Hannibal finished her sentence. "Yes, I am. I want to. I've told you this already. I suggest you find another excuse, Miss Starling."

The soldier's grip tightened on the fabric below her as she fumed, staring holes into the cup still within her hand. After a moment, she carefully reached over to the bedside table and placed it down onto the wood, her fingers forming into a fist as they returned to her body; all the while looking as if she wanted to lash out against him. To her credit, she did not. Others would have. Others have.

Finally, she looked up at him where he stood next to her. "I don't want to ask for anything more than you've given me, doctor."

"Why?"

The words seemed to get caught in her throat. Quietly, yet still holding her gaze as if it was a hapless and broken bird, he sat down next to her on the bed. She knew what to say, but didn't want to say it.

"I'm afraid of where it will take me."

The atmosphere in the room was heavy. It was as if a thunderstorm rolled in during the time it took for Clarice to speak a single sentence. It was hot and all too bright.

"What do you mean, Miss Starling?" he asked in a peculiar tone.

It took another moment for the soldier to find her words again. Her hand - small, compared to his own - reached out and brushed the back of his own. Despite her time in the trenches, the skin of her thumb was still quite soft.

"There's something about you. Something… dangerous," she said quietly, yet her voice was like thunder to his ears. "I don't know what it is. But I know you won't deny it."

This surprised him. But he didn't deny it.

"If I… If we… do anything… what will that mean?"

He looked at her. She looked at him. Her thumb was still rubbing the back of his hand, and he was aware of that.

"I trust you," she said, "But I don't know if I should."

This was a situation he had not found himself in before. He cared about Clarice. He wanted her. But she was right about him. He was a very dangerous man indeed. He would not ever directly cause her harm, or allow harm to come to her; not if he could help it. But there was the fact that he had killed people. And he would do it again.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. What happens then?

What happens now?

"Clarice," he said lowly. "I am not a perfect man. I don't want to be. But if you can accept that.." he let his words skate across the open air and linger.

He watched her think. If Doctor Lecter was someone else, he may give up his private amusements for her. But he wasn't. He didn't want to stop. He wanted her. The only way for an unstoppable force to meet an immovable object is for them to pass through one another without interacting at all.

He was not a perfect man, and this was not a perfect world. Any guilt he had would be his own, and only his.

The soldier's fingers closed slowly around his until they curled around his palm. Her skin was on fire. Slowly, Hannibal allowed himself to lean forward until his cheek met the side of hers. He heard her breathing hitch slightly as their faces touched and their bodies brushed together. His free hand raised until it was braced against her chin and he softly felt along her jawline.

Their eyes were still locked within one another's, silently hoping that everything would be okay. That this was okay.

He desired her.

And so Hannibal moved forward and pressed his lips against hers, his grip against her head tightening slightly, encouragingly. Clarice moved in kind, carefully twisting towards him and grasping the shirt on his shoulder to steady herself. He felt her pained breath as she did so, so he pulled away slightly.

"Are you alright, Clarice?" he asked quietly, yet intently.

"Yes," she responded, "This is good. I'll be okay."

Needing no further comment, he moved forward and kissed her once again, carefully avoiding making her move too much so she experienced no pain.

She smelled sweet and feminine, and he briefly wondered how no one in the military was able to recognize her gender. Everything about her screamed grace and beauty, and it was a shame she needed to hide herself in the first place.

His hand slid down from her jawline along her neck, skimming across her pulse as he went. Her blood thrummed hotly under his finger, and she gasped at his light tough.

"H-Hannibal," she exclaimed in a breathy voice that he liked very much.

His hand moved downwards, cresting her shoulder and reaching the side of her torso. The fabric of her cotton hospital gown did little to hide her curves from his inquisitive fingers as they explored. Pulling back from her lips, Doctor Lecter reached towards the shell of her ear, and he felt her shiver in reaction to his hot breath. "I like you _very_ much, Miss Starling," he whispered. Her muscles quaked in response. His fingers felt along the soft skin of her underarm, feathering the inside of the shirt she wore. "Do you like me?" he asked, a small smile pulling at the edge of his lips.

"Y-yes, doctor," she quivered.

"Do you like what I am doing?"

"Y-yes."

Hannibal reached down and toyed with the bottom of the hospital clothes. Her waist was hot to his touch. Slowly, giving her time to stop him, he reached up underneath the fabric.

Nipping her ear, Clarice let out a soft moan as he reached his desired location. Allowing his fingers to trail the undersides of her breasts, he stayed away from the wound that adorned her as he continued his teasing. Her grip on his shoulder tightened as her nails dug slightly into his muscles. A low and quiet growl escaped his lips, and he nipped at her ear once more.

Hannibal was a private man, but that did not mean that he had never been with a woman before. He enjoyed the time he spent with others of the opposite sex, but it had never been like this. There was a limit on what they could do together, considering the soldier's laceration, but he hadn't ever desired someone quite as much as he wanted Clarice now. There was a part of his mind that just wanted to take her now and damn the consequences. But he wouldn't. She deserved much more than that.

Doctor Lecter pulled back and watched the soldier's expression change as he continued his ministrations. He wanted to remember this.

As if she knew, Clarice looked up at him, her brown eyes nearly drowning his own in her intense gaze. He allowed her to pull him into a searing kiss, their lips moving together with a purpose. He could smell her all around him, her feminine perfume threatened to drown his control. Clarice moved closer to him, and he allowed himself the satisfaction of brushing a calloused thumb against that hardened, sensitive bud in the center of her breast.

She gasped, tearing herself away from his lips momentarily, her pupils wide and excited.

He wasn't done with her yet. Another low growl escaped from his throat as he leaned forward and nipped her lip, pulling her back towards him and moving his other arm to keep her there.

He could feel the long and crusty lesion against his chest, bumpy and unhealed. It pulled him back to reality. Accidentally hurting yourself while reading may have been unlikely, but still possible. Hurting yourself during intimacy? That was perhaps a tad bit more likely.

Still, this was something he planned on picking back up in the future. Breaking free from Clarice, he looked at her once more. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were blown wide as she looked at him in confusion.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked finally.

"I don't want to hurt you," he responded after a second, surprised by how low his voice had gotten. The soldier shifted in response to his gravelly tone.

She sighed, her hand reaching up to brush against his neck. Doctor Lecter allowed himself to lean into it as they sat there.

"You haven't."

"But I might. I only have so much self control."

At that, a slight blush creeped up Clarice's face. There was another moment of silence until she finally spoke. "I wish that we could." Her hand went and lightly trailed along the path that the knife had taken a couple weeks prior. "I wish for a lot of things."

"As do I."

"...Will you still stay here with me?" she asked, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. "I'm not ready to let you go."

"Of course, Miss Starling."

The soldier moved over across the bed. Doctor Lecter sat next to her. Their fingers were still wrapped within one another's. The Doctor was fine with that.

"How long?" the soldier asked suddenly.

"How long what?" he responded in question.

"How long until I'm healed?"

He thought about it. The wound was looking much better already, and it had only been a relatively short amount of time. But she had opened it half a dozen times since she had arrived at the hospital, and it was long and deep. It wasn't going to be an easy process.

"Anywhere from two to four months," he said quietly.

Clarice frowned.

He wished he could give her the answers she wanted. But he couldn't.


End file.
